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JOURNAL 


OF 


EUGENIE   DE   GUERIN 


Journal 


OF 


Eugenie  De  Guerin 


EDITED 

By  G.  S.  TREBUTIEN 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 

Vol.  I. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD   AND   COMPANY 

i393 


iHnibrrsitg  J)rcss: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


VOL.    I. 


Journal 

I.  From  Nov.  15th,  1834,  to  April  13th,  1835 

II.  From  April  14th  to  Dec.  5th,  1835  • 

III.  From  March  nth  to  April  15th,  1836 

IV.  From  May  1st  to  June,  1S37    .    .    . 
V.  From  Jan.  26th  to  Feb.  19th,  1S38    . 

VI.  From  Feb.  19th  to  May  3rd,  1838  .    . 

VII.  From  May  3rd  to  Sept.  29th,  1838  . 


Page 
I 

65 
117 

134 
163 

i85 
229 


JOURNAL 


OF 


EUGENIE    DE    GUERIN. 


I. 

TO   MY    BELOVED    BROTHER    MAURICE. 

Je  me  depose  dans  votre  ame. 
{Hitdegarde  to  St.  Bernard.) 
Nov.  15,  1834. 

QINCE  then  you  wish  it,  my  dear  Maurice,  I 
^  am  going  to  continue  the  little  Journal  you  so 
much  like.1  But  as  I  have  no  paper  at  hand,  I 
shall  make  use  of  a  stitched  copy-book,  in- 
tended for  poetry,  of  which  I  only  remove  the 
title  ;  2  the  rest,  thread  and  leaves,  are  all  left 
as  they  were  ;  and  bulky  though  it  be,  you  shall 
have  it  by  the  first  opportunity. 

1  We  learn  from  the  opening  of  the  next  book  that  this 
present  Journal  was  the  second ;  the  first  has  not  been 
found. 

2  The  half-effaced  word  Poems  is  still  to  be  deciphered 
at  the  head  of  the  page. 

vol.  I.  —  1 


2  Journal  of 

I  date  from  the  lUh  of  November,  exactly 
eight  days  since  your  last  letter  came.  Just  at 
this  present  hour  I  was  carrying  it  in  my  bag 
from  Cahuzac  hither,  together  with  an  an- 
nouncement of  a  death,  that  of  M.  d'Huteau, 
which  his  family  wished  us  to  be  informed  of. 
How  often  joy  and  sorrow  arrive  hand  in  hand  ! 

Thy  letter  gave  me  great  delight,  but  this 
death  saddened  us,  made  us  regret  a  worthy 
and  amiable  man  who  had  at  all  times  shown 
himself  our  friend.  The  whole  of  Gaillac 
mourned  him,  great  and  small.  Poor  women 
kept  saying,  while  on  their  way  to  his  death- 
bed, "  Such  a  one  as  he  should  never  have 
died,"  and  they  wept  while  praying  for  his 
peaceful  end.  This  it  is  that  renders  one  hope- 
ful about  his  soul  :  virtues  that  make  us  loved 
by  men  must  make  us  loved  of  God.  Monsieur 
the  Cure  saw  him  every  day,  and  doubtless  he 
will  have  done  more  than  merely  see  him.  It 
is  from  the  Illustrious  '  that  we  have  heard  these 
tidings,  with  others  current  in  the  Gaillac  circle, 
and  I  for  my  part  by  way  of  amusement  read 
them  and  think  of  her. 

17//?. — Three  letters  since  yesterday,  three 
very  great  pleasures,  for  I  am  so  fond  of  letters 

1  This  other  sister  was  sometimes  called  by  her  family 
Mini i,  Mint m,  or  Mary. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  3 

and  of  those  who  have  written  them  to  me  : 
Louise,  Mimi,  and  Felicite.  That  dear  Mimi 
says  such  sweet  charming  things  about  our  separa- 
tion, her  return,  her  weariness ;  for  she  gets  weary 
of  being  far  from  me,  as  I  of  being  without  her. 
Each  moment  I  see  and  feel  that  I  want  her,  at 
night  more  especially,  when  I  am  so  accustomed 
to  hear  her  breathe  close  to  my  ear.  That 
slight  sound  sets  me  to  sleep  ;  and  not  to  hear 
it  inspires  me  with  melancholy  reflections.  I 
think  of  death,  which  also  silences  everything 
around  us,  which  also  will  be  an  absence. 
These  night  thoughts  depend  somewhat  on 
those  I  have  had  during  the  day.  Nothing  gets 
talked  of  but  sickness  and  death  ;  the  Andillac 
bell  has  done  nothing  but  toll  these  last  days. 
It  is  typhus  fever  that  is  now  raging,  as  it  does 
every  year.  We  are  all  lamenting  a  young 
woman  of  your  age,  the  prettiest  and  most  re- 
spectable in  the  parish,  carried  off  in  a  few 
days  !  She  leaves  a  young  infant  that  she  was 
still  nursing.  Poor  little  thing!  the  mother  was 
Marianne  de  Gaillard.  Last  Sunday  I  went  to 
bid  farewell  to  a  dying  girl  of  eighteen.  She 
knew  me,  poor  young  creature,  spoke  just  a 
word  and  fell  back  to  her  praying.  I  wished 
to  say  something  to  her.  but  I  did  not  know 
what  to  say  ;  the  dying  speak  better  than  we. 


4  Journal  of 

They  buried  her  on  the  Monday.  How  many 
reflections  these  new  graves  suggest !  Oh  my 
God,  how  quickly  we  go  out  of  this  world  ! 
At  night  when  I  am  alone,  all  these  dead  faces 
come  before  me.  I  am  not  afraid,  but  all  my 
thoughts  put  on  mourning,  and  the  world 
appears  to  me  sad  as  a  tomb  ;  and  yet  I  told 
you  that  those  letters  gave  me  pleasure.  Oh, 
yes.  it  is  very  true,  in  the  midst  of  this  mortality 
my  heart  is  not  dumb,  and,  indeed,  only  feels  the 
more  keenly  what  brings  it  life.  Accordingly 
your  letter  gave  me  a  flash  of  joy,  or  rather  of 
true  happiness,  by  all  the  good  news  of  which 
it  is  full.  At  length  your  future  begins  to  dawn  ; 
I  see  before  you  a  profession,  a  social  position, 
some  certainty  as  to  material  existence.  God 
be  praised  !  this  is  the  thing  in  the  world  that  1 
most  desired  for  thee  and  for  me  too  ;  for  my 
future  is  linked  with  thine,  they  are  brothers. 
I  have  had  beautiful  dreams  on  this  head,  and 
may  perhaps  tell  them  thee.  But  for  the  present 
good-bye  ;    I  must  write  to  Mimi. 

18//1.  —  I  am  furious  with  the  grey  cat.  The 
wicked  creature  has  just  robbed  me  of  a  young 
pigeon  that  I  was  warming  by  the  fire.  The 
poor  little  thing  was  beginning  to  revive.  I  had 
meant  to  tame  it  ;  it  would  have  got  fond  of  me  ; 
and  now  all  this  ends  in  its  getting  crunched  up 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  5 

by  a  cat  !  What  disappointments  there  are  in 
life  !  This  event,  and  indeed  all  those  of  the  day, 
have  occurred  in  the  kitchen  ;  it  is  there  that 
I  have  spent  the  whole  morning  and  part  of  the 
evening  since  I  have  been  without  Mimi.  It  is 
necessary  to  overlook  the  cook.  Papa  too  comes 
down  sometimes,  and  I  read  to  him  beside  the 
stove  or  in  the  chimney  corner,  out  of  the  '  An- 
tiquities of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Church.'  This 
great  book  struck  Peterkin  with  amazement, 
Qud  de  monts  aqui  dcdins ! 1  That  child  is  quite 
a  character  ;  one  evening  he  asked  me  if  the 
soul  was  immortal,  and  afterwards  what  a 
philosopher  meant.  You  see  we  had  got  upon 
lofty  questions.  When  I  replied  that  it  was 
some  one  who  was  wise  and  learned  :  "  Then, 
Mademoiselle,  you  are  a  philosopher  !  "  This 
was  said  with  a  simplicity  and  sincerity  that 
might  have  Mattered  Socrates,  but  which  made 
me  laugh  so  much  that  my  solemn  catechiser 
took  himself  off  for  the  evening.  This  child 
left  us  one  of  these  last  days  to  his  great  regret ; 
his  term  was  up  on  the  festival  of  St.  Brice,  and 
there  he  is  now  hunting  for  truffles  with  his  little 
pig.     If  he  comes  this  way  I  shall  go  and  find 

1  In  the   patois   of  the   district,  "  How  many  words 
inside  it  I " 


6  journal  of 

him  out,  to  ask  if  he  still  thinks  I   look  like  a 
philosopher. 

With  whom  do  you  suppose  I  was  spending 
this  morning  by  the  kitchen  fire  ?  With  Plato  : 
I  did  not  dare  to  say  so,  but  he  chanced  to  come 
under  my  eyes,  and  I  determined  to  make  his 
acquaintance.  I  am  only  at  the  first  pages  as 
yet.  He  seems  to  me  most  admirable,  this 
Plato  ;  but  one  of  his  notions  strikes  me  as  sin- 
gular, that  of  ranking  health  before  beauty  in 
the  catalogue  of  God's  gifts?  If  he  had  con- 
sulted a  woman,  Plato  would  not  have  written 
thus :  you  feel  sure  of  that,  don't  you  ?  So  do 
I  ;  and  yet,  remembering  that  I  am  a  philosopher, 
I  rather  incline  to  his  opinion.  When  one  is  in 
bed  and  really  ill,  one  would  gladly  sacrifice 
one's  complexion  or  one's  bright  eyes  to  regain 
health  and  enjoy  the  sunshine.  And  besides,  a 
small  degree  of  piety  in  the  heart,  a  little  love 
of  God,  is  enough  to  make  one  speedily  re- 
nounce such  idolatries  ;  for  a  pretty  woman 
adores  herself.  When  I  was  a  child  I  thought 
nothing  equal  to  beauty,  because,  I  said  to  my- 
self, it  would  have  made  Mamma  love  me  bet- 
ter. Thank  God  this  childishness  has  passed 
away,  and  the  beauty  of  the  soul  is  the  only 
one  I  covet.  Perhaps  even  in  this  I  am  still 
childish  as  of  yore  :  I  should  like  to  resemble  the 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  7 

angels,  —  this  may  displease  God  ;  the  motive  is 
still  the  same,  to  be  loved  better  by  Him.  How 
many  things  occur  to  me,  only  I  must  leave 
thee  !  I  have  got  to  say  my  rosary  ;  night  is  at 
hand,  and  I  like  to  end  the  day  in  prayer. 

20th.  —  I  delight  in  snow  ;  there  is  something 
heavenly  about  this  white  expanse.  Mud,  bare 
earth,  displeases  and  depresses  me  ;  to-day  I  see 
nothing  but  the  tracks  on  the  road,  and  the  foot- 
prints of  little  birds.  However  lightly  they  set- 
tle, they  leave  their  small  traces,  which  make  all 
sorts  of  patterns  in  the  snow.  It  is  pretty  to 
watch  those  tiny  red  feet,  like  coral  pencils 
drawing  themselves.  Thus  winter  too  has  its 
charms  and  prettinesses.  Everywhere  God 
sheds  grace  and  beauty.  I  must  go  now  and  see 
what  there  is  of  pleasant  to  be  found  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  —  sparks  at  all  events.  This  is  a 
mere  "  good-morning"  that  I  say  to  the  snow 
and  to  thee  on  jumping  out  of  bed. 

I  had  to  put  an  extra  dish  on  the  table  for 
Sauveur  Roquier,  who  had  come  to  see  us  ;  it 
was  a  ham  cured  with  sugar,  which  made  the 
poor  fellow  lick  his  lips.  Good  things  do  not 
often  fall  to  his  share  ;  that  was  why  I  deter- 
mined to  give  him  a  treat.  It  is,  as  I  think,  the 
neglected  to  whom  we  should  show  these  atten- 
tions ;  humanity  and  charity  teach  us  this.    The 


8  Journal  of 

prosperous  can  do  very  well  without  them,  and 
yet  it  is  only  they  who  meet  with  them  in  the 
world  ;  so  made  up  of  contradictions  are  we. 

No  reading  to-day  ;  I  was  making  up  a  head- 
dress for  the  little  one,  and  that  took,  all  my 
time.  But  whether  we  work  with  our  head  or 
our  lingers,  it  is  all  one  in  the  eyes  of  God,  who 
keeps  account  of  everything  that  is  undertaken  in 
His  name.  I  therefore  hope  that  my  head-dress 
may  be  accepted  as  a  work  of  charity.  I  made 
a  present  of  my  time,  of  a  little  portion  of  my 
skin  worn  away  by  the  needle,  and  of  thousands 
of  interesting  lines  that  I  might  else  have  read. 
Papa  brought  me  from  Clairac  the  day  before 
yesterday  '  Ivanhoe'  and  the  '  Life  and  Times 
of  Louis  XIV.'  There  are  provisions  for  some 
of  the  long  winter  evenings  1  It  is  I  who  am 
the  great  reader,  but  only  by  fits  and  starts  ; 
sometimes  it's  a  key  that  I  am  asked  for,  — a 
thousand  things  are  wanted,  — often  I  myself  in 
person, — and  the  book  gets  shut  for  the  mo- 
ment. Oh,  Mimm  !  when  will  you  return  to  help 
the  poor  housekeeper,  who  misses  you  at  every 
moment  )  Did  I  tell  thee  that  yesterday  I  got 
tidings  of  her  at  the  C  .  .  .  fair  to  which  I 
had  goner1  How  many  yawns,  to  be  sure,  I 
left  behind  on  that  luckless  balcony  !  At  last 
Mimi's  letter  was  brought  me  just  as  if  to  be  an 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  9 

antidote  to  weariness,  and  it  was  the  only  pleas- 
ant thing  I  saw  at  C  .   .   . 

I  put  down  nothing  here  yesterday  ;  better 
blank  spaces  than  mere  nullities,  and  they  were 
all  I  should  have  had  to  say.  I  was  tired  and 
sleepy.  Things  are  much  better  to-day  ;  I  have 
seen  the  snow  come  and  go  away  again.  While 
I  was  preparing  my  dinner  a  bright  sun  broke 
out ;  good-bye  to  the  snow  ;  now  blackness  and 
ugliness  are  reappearing.  What  shall  I  see  to- 
morrow morning  ?  Who  knows  ?  The  face  of 
the  world  changes  so  suddenly. 

I  have  just  come  away  in  good  spirits  from 
the  kitchen,  where  I  remained  longer  than  usual 
this  evening  to  try  and  determine  Paul,  one  of 
our  servants,  to  go  to  confession  at  Christmas. 
He  has  promised  me  that  he  would.  He  is  a 
good  youth,  and  he  will  do  it.  God  be  praised  ! 
my  evening  has  not  been  lost.  What  joy  could 
I  but  thus  win  every  day  some  soul  to  God  ! 
Good  Sir  Walter  has  been  neglected  to-night ; 
but  what  amount  of  reading  would  have  been  of 
the  same  value  to  me  as  this  promise  of  Paul's  ! 
It  is  nine  o'clock ;   I  am  going  to  sleep. 

21st. — This  day  began  radiantly:  a  summer 
sun,  a  soft  air  that  invited  one  to  take  a  walk. 
Everything  urged  me  to  do  so,  but  I  only  took 
two  steps  beyond  the  door,  and  stopped  short 


io  journal  of 

at  the  sheep-stable  to  look,  at  a  white  lamb 
that  had  just  been  born.  I  delight  in  seeing 
these  tiny  animals,  which  make  us  thank  God 
for  surrounding  us  with  so  many  gentle  crea- 
tures. When  Peterkin  came,  I  gave  him  break- 
fast and  chatted  a  while  with  him,  without 
getting  the  least  tired  of  the  conversation. 
How  many  parties  there  are  of  which  one  can- 
not say  as  much  !  The  wind  blows  :  all  our 
doors  and  windows  groan!  It  is  somewhat 
melancholy  at  this  present  time  in  my  solitude, 
the  whole  house  being  asleep  :  they  rose  early 
to  bake.  I,  too,  was  very  busy  the  whole  morn- 
ing with  the  two  dinners  ;  after  that  came  rest. 
I  wrote  to  Antoinette.  All  this  is  very  insig- 
nificant :  blank  paper  would  be  as  good  as  what 
I  am  writing  ;  but,  were  it  only  a  drop  of  ink 
from  here,  you  would  take  pleasure  in  looking 
at  it  ;  that  is  why  I  am  turning  it  into  words. 
I  don't  know  why,  but  last  night  I  saw  nothing 
but  a  procession  of  coffins.  To-night  I  should 
iike  less  gloomy  dreams,  and  am  going  to  pray 
God  to  send  them  me. 

24//1.  —  Three  days  blank,  my  dear  friend. 
This  is  very  long  for  me  who  so  little  approve 
empty  space  ;  but  I  have  not  had  time  to  sit 
down.  I  have  only  passed  through  my  little 
room  since  Saturday.     This  is  the  first  time   I 


Euginie  de  Guerin.  u 

have  stopped  in  it,  and  I  do  so  to  write  a  very 
long  letter  to  Mimi  and  two  words  here.  Per- 
haps this  evening  I  may  add  something,  should 
it  occur.  For  the  moment  all  is  calm,  within 
and  without,  soul  and  house  :  a  happy  condi- 
tion, but  giving  me  little  to  say,  like  peaceful 
reigns  to  the  historian.  This  day  began  with  a 
letter  from  Paul.  He  invites  me  to  Alby.  I 
cannot  promise  him  this  ;  I  should  have  to  leave 
home  for  that,  and  I  am  becoming  sedentary. 
Very  willingly  would  I  take  the  vow  of  seclu- 
sion here  at  Cayla.  No  place  in  the  world 
pleases  me  so  much  as  home.  Oh,  the  deli- 
ciousness  of  home !  How  I  pity  thee,  poor 
exile,  to  be  so  far  away  from  it ;  to  see  thy 
own  people  only  in  thought ;  not  to  be  able  to 
say  to  us  either  "  Good-morning  "  or  "  Good- 
evening  ;  "  to  live  a  stranger  without  any  home  of 
thy  own  in  the  world,  — having  father,  brother, 
and  sisters,  in  one  place  !  All  this  is  sad,  and 
yet  I  may  not  wish  thee  anything  else.  We 
cannot  have  thee,  but  I  hope  to  see  thee  again, 
and  this  consoles  me.  I  am  constantly  thinking 
of  thy  arrival,  and  foreseeing  how  happy  we 
shall  be. 

While  I  was  standing  near  the  mill  a  poor 
little  girl  from  Andillac  brought  me  a  letter  from 
Mimi.     "  Many  thanks,  child  !  here  is  a  penny 


12  Journal  of 

for  you."  She  takes  the  penny,  and  does  not 
go.  "  What  more  do  you  want .-"  ••  Whv,  the 
letter  to  be  sure."  "The  letter  is  for  me." 
"  Yes,  but  you  must  give  it  back  to  me  ;  and 
see  "  (putting  her  finger  on  the  seal),  "  you 
have  gone  and  torn  it  !  "  and  she  stared  quite 
aghast  at  seeing  me  laugh  over  this  catastrophe. 
At  last,  finding  that  I  was  quite  determined  not 
to  return  her  her  missive,  she  bade  me  adissias. 
Then  sitting  down  upon  a  rail.  I  read  the  pret- 
tiest little  sister-endearments.  There  is  nothing 
so  bright  and  clever  as  Mimin's  affectionate 
heart.  She  is  getting  quite  tired,  wants  to  see 
us  again.  Gaiety  gives  her  little  pleasure  ;  we 
shall  have  her  back  on  Friday.  I  am  going  to 
write  to  her  by  Eran,1  who  is  about  to  visit  the 
Huteaux.  I,  on  my  part,  find  myself  alone, 
solitary,  but  half-alive  ;  as  though,  it  seems  to 
me,  I  had  only  half  a  soul.  Just  now  it  occurs 
to  me  that  all  this  is  but  lost  time  ;  that  thou 
wilt  find  nothing  attractive  enough  in  these 
pages  to  open  them  all.  What  will  they  con- 
tain }  Days  that  resemble  each  other;  some 
little  of  a  life  that  gives  nothing  to  tell.  Better 
that  I  should  return  to  the  cstoupas  I  was  sew- 
ing.    I  leave  thee,  then,  poor  pen  1 

1  Familiar   abbreviation   of    the   name    of  her  brother 
Erembcrt. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  13 

How  beautiful  must  be  the  heaven  of  heav- 
ens !  This  is  what  I  kept' thinking  during  the 
time  I  have  just  been  spending  in  contemplation 
under  the  most  glorious  winter  sky.  I  have  a 
habit  of  opening  my  window  before  going  to 
bed,  to  see  what  sort  of  weather  it  is,  and,  if 
fine,  to  enjoy  it.  This  night  I  looked  longer 
than  usual,  so  ravishingly  beautiful  was  it !  But 
for  the  fear  of  cold  I  should  be  there  still.  I 
thought  of  God,  who  has  made  our  prison  so 
radiant ;  I  thought  of  the  saints,  who  have  all 
those  beauteous  stars  beneath  their  feet  ;  I 
thought  of  thee,  who  wert,  perhaps,  looking  up 
to  them  like  me.  All  this  might  easily  have 
kept  me  up  all  night  ;  but,  however,  one  must 
shut  the  window  upon  that  grand  outer  world, 
and  shut  one's  own  eyes  under  the  curtains  1 
Eran  brought  me  two  letters  from  Louise  this 
evening.  They  are  charming  :  enchanting  and 
full  of  wit,  soul,  heart  ;  and  all  this  for  me  !  I 
don't  know  why  I  am  not  quite  transported  and 
intoxicated  with  friendship.  Yet  God  knows  if 
I  love  her  !  There,  you  have  my  day  to  its 
last  hour ;  nothing  remains  but  my  evening 
prayer  and  the  waiting  for  sleep.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  will  come  ;  as  yet  it  is  far  away. 
Possibly  Mimi  may  return  to-morrow;  at  this 
very  hour  I  shall  have  her.     She  will  be  here  ; 


14  Journal  of 

or,  rather,  our  heads  will  be  resting  on  the 
same  pillow  ;  she  talking  to  me  of  Gaillac,  I  to 
her  of  Cayla. 

l6th.  —  I  did  not  write  yesterday  ;  I  did  noth- 
ing but  expect.  At  last  she  came  in  the  even- 
ing—  the  dear  Mimi  !  Now  then  1  am  happy  ; 
I  begin  over  and  over  again  the  narrative  of  all 
I  have  done,  said,  and  thought  since  her  depart- 
ure. She  tells  me  a  thousand  things  about  our 
friends,  about  people  in  general,  everything  she 
has  seen  ;  and  all  this  is  so  charming  to  say 
and  hear.  Oh,  the  happiness  of  meeting  again  ! 
Positively,  it  would  almost  be  worth  while  to 
go  away  from  time  to  time  for  this  one  pleasure 
of  coming  back.  I  made  a  beginning  of  a  let- 
ter to  thee  yesterday,  but  I  was  not  in  writing 
mood  ;  my  whole  soul  kept  going  to  the  win- 
dow. To-day,  I  return  to  myself  and  shall 
finish  my  page,  but  this  only  after  dinner,  by 
way  of  recreation.  First  of  all,  I  must  tell 
thee  that  I  have  just  been  enjoying  the  sun 
from  the  hill  of  Sept-Fonts.  This  is  one  of 
my  favourite  pleasures,  as  are  all  those  that 
come  from  the  sky.  But  the  hill  is  melancholy 
now  ;  it  is  all  one  can  do  to  see  where  the 
bench  once  stood.  There  were  some  remnants 
of  it,  some  splinters  not  long  ago  ;  but  how  fast 
even  mere  debris  pass  away  !     Meanwhile,  as  I 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  15 

was  thinking,  looking,  and  regretting,  I  sat  me 
down  on  a  prostrate  oak  —  my  bench  of  to-day. 
It,  at  least,  will  not  be  carried  off  by  the  wind. 
There  I  waited  for  Mimi,  who  was  gone  on 
Pingembert,  to  take  some  pomegranate  plants 
to  the  Vialarette  for  Marie  de  Thezac.  Why 
cannot  I  thus  find  some  one  who  would  take 
something  to  thee  ? 

27//?.  —  I  close  Saint  Augustine,  my  soul  full 
of  those  soothing  words,  "  Throw  yourself  into 
the  bosom  of  God,  as  upon  a  bed  of  rest." 
What  a  beautiful  idea  !  and  what  refreshment 
we  should  find  in  life,  if,  like  the  saints,  we 
knew  how  to  rest  in  God  !  They  go  to  Him  as 
children  to  their  mother,  and  on  His  breast  they 
sleep,  pray,  weep,  abide.  God  is  the  home  of 
the  saints  ;  but  we  earthly-minded  ones  know 
no  other  than  this  earth  —  this  poor  earth  — 
dry,  black,  and  mournful,  as  a  dwelling  under 
a  curse.  Nothing  came  to-day,  not  even  the 
sun  ;  this  evening  only  a  few  crows  have  flown 
by.  No  walk,  no  going  out,  except  in  thought ; 
but  my  thought  does  not  wander,  it  soars.  This 
evening  our  reading  will  be  the  report  of  the 
famous  Carrat  case,  which  occupies  the  whole 
country  ;  but  I  am  not  fond  of  such  affairs,  and 
criminal  celebrity  has  nothing  about  it  interest- 
ing according  to  me.     However,  I  am  going  to 


1 6  Journal  of 

give  myself  up  to  it.  The  wretched  man  has 
written  from  his  prison  to  Mademoiselle  Vialar, 
to  ask  her  for  an  '  Imitation.'1  Such  an  idea  in 
this  active  spirit  might  lead  us  to  hope  for  a  con- 
version ;  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  it  only  shows 
hypocrisy,  since  he  continues  to  be  a  wretch, 
they  say.  Erembert  is  gone  to  Alby  to  hear  the 
trial,  which  draws  crowds.  Whence  can  we  get 
this  curiosity  of  ours  about  monsters  ? 

28//?. — This  morning,  before  daylight,  my 
fingers  were  in  the  ashes  looking  for  fire  enough 
to  light  a  candle.  I  could  not  find  any,  and 
was  just  going  back  to  bed  when  a  little  bit  of 
charcoal  that  I  happened  to  touch  showed  a 
spark,  and  there  was  my  lamp  lit.  Dressing 
got  over  quickly,  prayer  said,  and  we  were  with 
Mimi  in  the  Cahuzac  road.  That  unfortunate 
road,  I  so  long  took  it  alone,  and  how  glad  I  was 
to  take  it  with  four  feet  to-day  !  The  weather 
was  not  fine,  and  I  could  not  see  the  mountain  ; 
that  dear  district  I  look  at  so  much  when  it  is 
clear.  The  chapel  was  engaged,  which  was  a 
pleasure  to  me.  I  like  not  to  be  hurried,  and 
to  have  time  before  I  enter  in  there  to  raise  my 
whole  soul  before  God.  This  often  takes  long, 
because  my  thoughts  find  themselves  scattered 
like  leaves.  At  two  o'clock  I  was  on  mv  knees, 
listening  to  the  finest  teaching  imaginable  ;  and 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  17 

I  came  out  feeling  that  I  was  better.  The  effect 
of  every  burden  laid  down  is  to  leave  us  re- 
lieved ;  and  when  the  soul  has  laid  down  that  of 
its  faults  at  the  feet  of  God,  it  feels  as  though  it 
had  wings.  I  admire  the  excellency  of  confes- 
sion. What  ease,  what  light,  what  strength  I 
feel  conscious  of  every  time  that  I  have  said 
"  It  is  my  fault  1  " 

29//1.  —  Cloaks,  clogs,  umbrellas  —  all  the  ap- 
paratus of  winter  —  followed  us  this  morning  to 
Andillac,  where  we  stayed  till  evening  between 
the  parsonage  and  the  church.  This  Sunday 
life,  so  stirring,  so  active,  how  much  I  like  it  1 
We  come  upon  each  other  in  passing,  and  then 
chatter  while  walking  on  together  about  the 
poultry,  the  flocks,  the  husband,  the  children. 
My  great  pleasure  is  to  caress  these  last,  and  to 
see  them  hide  themselves,  red  as  fire,  in  their 
mother's  petticoats.  They  are  afraid  of  las 
doumaiselos,  as  of  everything  unfamiliar.  One 
of  these  urchins  said  to  his  grandmother,  who 
was  speaking  of  coming  here,  "  Minino,  don't 
go  to  that  castle  ;  there  is  a  black  dungeon 
there."  Why  is  it  that  castles  have  at  all  times 
inspired  terror  ?  Is  it  because  of  the  horrors 
that  were  committed  in  them  of  yore  ?  I  think 
so.  Oh  !  how  sweet  it  is,  when  the  rain  is  heard 
pattering,  to  be  by  the  corner  of  one's  fire, 
vol.  1  —  2 


1 8  Journal  of 

tongs  in  one's  hand,  making  sparks  !  This  was 
my  amusement  just  now.  I  am  very  fond  of  it  ; 
sparks  are  so  pretty  !  they  are  the  flowers  of 
the  chimney.  Really,  there  are  charming  thin 
going  on  amongst  the  embers,  and  when  I  am 
not  occupied  I  like  to  watch  the  phantasmagoria 
of  the  hearth.  There  are  a  thousand  little  fairy 
shapes  coming,  going,  dilating,  changing,  dis- 
appearing ;  now  angels,  now  horned  demons, 
children,  old  women,  butterflies,  dogs,  sparrows. 
One  sees  a  little  of  everything  in  the  embers. 
I  remember  one  face,  with  an  expression  of 
heavenly  suffering,  which  reminded  me  of  a  soul 
in  purgatory.  I  was  struck  by  it,  and  should 
like  to  have  had  a  painter  by  my  side.  Never 
was  there  a  more  perfect  vision.  Remark  the 
logs  burning,  and  thou  wilt  agree  that,  unless 
we  are  blind,  we  ought  not  to  find  time  tedious 
beside  a  fire.  Listen,  above  all,  to  that  little 
whistle  which  sometimes  comes  from  below  the 
burning  half  of  the  wood,  like  a  singing  voice. 
Nothing  can  be  more  exquisite  or  pure  ;  one 
would  say  it  was  some  very  diminutive  spirit  of 
(ire  that  was  chanting.  There,  my  friend,  are 
my  evenings  and  their  amusements  ;  to  which  add 
sleep,  which  is  by  no  means  the  least  of  them. 

30//1.  —  I  have  been  told  a  striking  story  of  a 
sick  woman  at  Andillac.     After  having  swooned 


Eugenie  Je  Guerin.  19 

away,  and  remained,  as  it  were,  dead  for  sixteen 
hours,  this  woman  suddenly  opened  her  eyes 
and  called  out,  "  Who  has  brought  me  back 
from  the  other  world  ?  I  was  between  heaven 
and  hell  ;  the  angels  were  drawing  me  one  way, 
the  devils  the  other.  Oh  God  1  how  I  suffered, 
and  how  awful  is  the  sight  of  the  abyss  1  "  And, 
turning  round,  she  began  to  repeat  in  a  suppli- 
catory voice  litanies  of  the  Divine  mercy  that 
had  never  been  read  anywhere  ;  then  took  again 
to  speaking  of  hell  that  she  had  seen  and  been 
close  to,  in  her  swoon.  And  when  she  was  told 
that  she  should  not  keep  thinking  of  such  fright- 
ful subjects,  "  Hell  is  not  for  dogs,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  have  seen  it,  I  have  seen  it !  "  Is  not  this  a 
dramatic  scene  ?  and  it  is  quite  true.  It  was 
Francoise,  the  sister  of  the  Cur6,  who  told  it 
to  me,  and  who  had  herself  watched  beside  the 
sick  woman  that  very  night.  The  sufferer  was 
none  of  the  most  pious  before,  and  now  she  is 
full  of  faith,  fervour,  and  resignation.  The  Cur£ 
is  the  only  physician  she  wants  ;  she  says  nothing 
to  the  other.  May  we  not  believe  that  God  has 
had  a  hand  in  this  ?  Who  knows  all  that  a 
dying  soul  may  see  — 

When  the  next  world  appears  before  its  gaze, 
Then  .... 

But  I  won't  write  poetry. 


20  Journal  of 

Listen  to  a  striking  miracle  that  I  have  just 
been  reading.  It  is  one  of  Saint  Nicaise,  who, 
when  evangelising  in  Gaul,  found  himself  in  a 
country  ravaged  by  an  enormous  dragon.  The 
saint,  taking  advantage  of  this  event  to  make 
known  to  the  people  the  power  of  the  God  he 
proclaimed,  gave  his  stole  to  one  of  his  disciples 
and  sent  him  to  meet  the  monster,  which  the 
disciple  bound  with  this  stole,  and  brought  into 
the  presence  of  the  whole  people,  before  whom 
he  burst.  I  admire  the  simplicity  of  the  narra- 
tive, and  the  grand  prodigy  in  which  I  believe. 
Good-night,  with  Saint  Nicaise  ! 

15/  December.  — It  is  with  the  same  ink  that 
I  have  just  written  my  letter  to  thee  that  I  go 
on  writing  here  ;  the  same  drop,  falling  half  of 
it  in  Paris,  half  on  this  page,  will  jot  down  for 
thee  all  manner  of  things  — here  tender  words, 
there  scoldings,  for  I  always  send  thee  what- 
ever passes  through  my  mind.  I  am  sorry  to 
have  only  written  thee  two  or  three  words.  I 
might  have  sent  thee  this,  and  the  idea  did  occur 
to  me  of  detaching  these  few  sheets  ;  but  sup- 
pose they  were  to  be  lost  in  the  public  houses 
where  Master  Delaruc  is  sure  to  go  and  drink  ! 
Better  keep  our  chit-chat  for  a  safe  opportunity. 
It  will  be  with  the  pie,  then,  that  I  shall  send  it, 
if  I  can  without  risk  put  papers  into  the  case. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin  21 

2nd.  —  I  am  vexed  with  myself  for  being 
weak  enough  to  suppose  thee  indifferent  to  us 
and  to  me.  And  yet,  absurd  as  this  idea  is,  it 
occupied  and  saddened  me  yesterday  the  whole 
day.  Accordingly  you  see  how  little  I  said  to 
thee.  Sadness  makes  me  dumb  ;  forgive  it  me  ; 
I  prefer  to  be  silent  rather  than  to  complain.  It 
is  thy  letter  to  Mimi  that  has  caused  it  all.  I 
will  tell  thee  why.  When  you  read  this,  my 
friend,  recollect  that  it  is  written  on  the  1st  of 
December  —  a  day  of  rain,  gloom,  and  vexa- 
tion —  on  which  the  sun  has  not  shown  itself, 
when  I  have  seen  nothing  besides  crows,  and 
had  only  a  very  short  letter  of  yours  to  read. 

yd.  —  Nothing  more  than  the  date  to-day. 

But  no  1  I  will  not  be  a  whole  day  without 
saying  something  to  thee,  were  it  only  a  good- 
night. It  is  seven  o'clock —  Marie  is  stirring 
the  fire.  I  hear  the  brook.  This  is  all  I  have 
to  particularise  just  now,  together  with  a  beau- 
tiful star  that  I  can  see  from  here,  rising  above 
Les  Merix.  You  have  not  forgotten  that 
hamlet  ? 

4//1.  —  A    rare   and  pleasant  visit  ;    Madame 

de  F has  just  gone  away.     We  could  only 

keep  her  a  few  hours,  from  ten  to  three.  Her 
husband  was  with  her,  and  carried  her  off  in 
spite  of   our  entreaties.      The  fact  is,  he  him- 


->  -> 


Journal  of 


self  was  obliged  to  return,  and  he  can  no  more 
do  without  his  wife  than  without  his  eyes. 
Happy  woman  !  to  know  how  to  make  herself 
so  indispensable!  There  she  is  now  on  the  hill 
of  Bleys  —  and  here  I  am  telling  thee  that  she 
has  been  here —  a  great  event  at  Cayla.  a  lady's 
visit,  more  especially  at  this  season. 

I  really  must  write  to  Gaillac.     It  is  to 

that  I  shall  write,  but  not  as  I  do  to  thee  or  to 
Louise,  at  full  length,  freely,  fully  ;  but  briefly, 
as  it  were,  in  miniature.  It  is  enough  for  one 
who  only  wants  to  make  himself  visible.  I 
keep  the  large  scale  for  intimates.  Two  visits, 
two  letters  written,  and  one  received  ;  this  is  a 
great  deal  in  the  course  of  a  Cayla  day.  The 
weather  too  was  fine  ;  we  went  down  to  the 
meadow,  and  enjoyed  the  sun  as  we  might  have 
done  in  spring. 

>//;.  —  Papa  set  out  this  morning  for  Gaillac  ; 
here  we  are  sole  "  chatelaines."  Mimi  and  I, 
till  to-morrow,  and  absolute  mistresses  !  This 
ency  is  not  disagreeable,  and  I  rather  enjoy 
it  for  a  day,  but  not  longer.  Long  reigns  are 
tedious.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  rule  "  Trilby," 
and  to  get  her  to  come  when  I  call,  or  to  give 
her  paw  when  I  ask  it.  Yesterday  a  sad  acci- 
dent befell  "  Trilby."  As  she  was  tranquilly 
sleeping   under  the  kitchen   chimney,    a    gourd 


Eugenie  de  Gun  in.  23 

that  was  hanging  up  to  dry  fell  upon  her.  The 
blow  bewildered  her;  the  poor  pet  came  run- 
ning to  us  as  quickly  as  ever  she  could,  to 
impart  her  distress.  A  caress  cured  her.  Night 
has  come.  A  knock  makes  itself  heard  !  Every 
one  runs  to  the  door,  crying  "  Who  is  there?" 
It  was  Jean  de  Persac,  an  old  tenant,  whom  I 
had  not  seen  for  a  long  time.  He  was  heartily 
welcomed,  and  set  down  upon  his  first  entrance 
to  eat  and  drink  ;  after  which  we  got  him  to  talk 
of  his  present  locality,  and  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren. I  am  very  fond  of  such  conversations 
and  meetings.  These  faces  of  the  olden  time 
give  peculiar  pleasure  ;  they  seem  to  restore 
one's  youth.  I  fancied  myself  yesterday  back 
to  the  time  when  Jean  used  to  take  me  upon 
his  knee. 

6th.  —  I  made  Jean  promise  to  call  again  this 
evening,  so  I  shall  see  him  once  more,  and  then 
I  mean  to  give  him  a  letter  for  Gabrielle  ;  he  is 
one  of  their  farm  tenants.  Bri  will  not  be  sorry 
to  get  this  unexpected  "  souvenir."  I  should 
else  have  written  to  her  by  the  post,  and  thus  I 
save  her  eight  pence,  which  she  will  give  over 
and  above  to  her  poor  people.  Therefore  this 
is  a  good  work  on  my  part.  Indeed,  it  has 
been  a  day  of  good  actions,  this.  I  am  just 
returned  from  Cahuzac,  as  is  invariably  the  case, 


j  4  Journal  of 

wonderfully  disposed  to  do  right ;  to  do  wrong 
on  such  a  day  seems  to  me  impossible.  And 
then  there  comes  such  a  strange  calm  !  Just 
observe  how  tranquil  my  spirit  appears  on  these 
occasions.  It  is  so  in  reality,  for  I  never  dis- 
guise anything  from  thee  ;  but  let  drop  on  the 
paper  whatever  comes,  even  tears  !  When  my 
diary  is  prolonged,  it  is  a  sign  that  I  am  at 
my  best.  Great  abundance,  then,  of  affection 
and  of  things,  to  tell,  —  those  that  go  on  within 
the  soul.  As  for  external  things,  very  often 
they  are  not  worth  mentioning,  unless  they  ^o 
and  echo  within,  like  the  knocker  on  a  door. 
Then  one  speaks  of  them,  however  small  they 
be.  A  bit  of  news,  a  gust  of  wind,  a  bird,  a 
nothing  will  sometimes  go  to  my  heart,  and 
would  afford  me  subjects  for  pages.  If  I  were 
to  dwell  upon  what  I  am  to  do  to-morrow  ! 
But  here  prayers  are  better  than  words.  If  I 
speak  to  God,  He  will  draw  near;  and  thou, 
thou  art  so  far  away!  Thou  hearest  me  not, 
and  the  time  that  I  devote  to  thee  will  not  count 
in  heaven.  Almost  all  that  we  do  for  the  crea- 
ture is  lost,  unless  love  be  blended  with  it. 
Love  is  the  salt  that  preserves  affections  and 
actions  from  the  corruption  of  life.  Here 
comes   Papa  ! 

7//1.  —  Yesterday  the  evening  was  spent    in 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  25 

talking  about  Gaillac,  of  these,  and  those,  and 
a  thousand  things  going  on  in  the  little  town. 
I  do  not  care  much  for  news  ;  but  news  of 
friends  always  gives  pleasure,  and  one  listens  to 
it  with  more  interest  than  to  news  of  the  world 
and  of  tiresome  politics.  Nothing  makes  me 
yawn  so  soon  as  a  newspaper.  It  was  not  so 
formerly,  but  tastes  change,  and  the  heart  de- 
taches itself  from  something  or  other  every  day 
we  live.  Time  and  experience  too  disabuse  ; 
as  we  advance  in  life  we  at  length  gain  the 
proper  position  whence  to  judge  of  our  affec- 
tions and  know  them  in  their  true  light.  I 
have  all  mine  now  present  before  me.  First  I 
see  dolls,  toys,  birds,  butterflies,  that  I  loved  — 
sweet  and  innocent  childish  affections.  Then 
come  reading,  conversation,  dress  in  a  slight 
degree,  and  dreams,  beautiful  dreams !  .  .  .  But 
I  am  not  going  to  confess.  It  is  Sunday.  I  have 
returned  alone  from  the  first  mass  at  Lentin, 
and  I  am  enjoying  in  my  little  room  the  sweet- 
est calm  in  the  world,  in  union  with  God.  The 
happiness  of  the  morning  penetrates  me,  flows 
into  my  soul,  and  transforms  me  into  something 
that  I  cannot  express.  I  leave  thee.  I  must 
be  silent. 

8th.  —  I   never   read  .any  book    of   devotion 
without  finding  in  it  admirable  things,  and,  as 


26  Journal  of 

it  were,  made  on  purpose  for  me.  Thus,  for 
instance,  "  They  that  trust  in  the  Lord  shall 
find  their  strength  renewed  day  by  day.  When 
they  think  themselves  powerless  and  exhausted, 
suddenly  their  wings  shall  sprout  like  those  of 
the  eagle.  They  shall  run,  and  not  be  weary  : 
they  shall  walk,  and  not  faint.  Advance,  then, 
pious  soul,  advance  ;  and.  when  you  believe 
yourself  at  the  last  gasp,  redouble  your  zeal 
and  courage,  for  the  Lord  will  sustain  you." 
How  often  we  need  this  support !  Oh,  poor 
weak,  wavering,  fainting  soul  !  say  what  would 
become  of  thee,  without  the  Divine  help  r" 
These  words  are  Bossuet's.  I  have  hardly 
opened  any  other  book  to-day.  The  hours  have 
passed  in  everything  but  reading,  in  matters 
that  are  nothing,  are  nameless,  and  which  yet 
run  away  with  all  one's  time.  Good-night,  my 
friend  ! 

<;//?.  —  I  have  just  been  warming  myself  by 
every  fireside  in  the  village.  This  is  a  round 
that  we  make  with  Mimin  from  time  to  time, 
and  which  is  by  no  means  without  its  attrac- 
tions. To-day  it  was  a  visiting  of  the  sick  ; 
accordingly  we  discussed  medicines  and  infu- 
sions. "  Take  this  ;  "  "Do  that  ;  "  and  we  are 
listened  to  as  attentively  as  any  doctor.  We 
prescribed  clogs  to  a  little  child  that  had  made 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  27 

itself  ill  by  walking  barefoot,  and  a  pillow  to 
its  brother,  who  with  a  violent  headache  was 
lying  quite  flat ;  the  pillow  relieved  him,  but 
will  not  cure  him,  I  think.  He  seems  to  be 
suffering  from  an  affection  of  the  chest,  and 
these  poor  people  in  their  hovels  are  like  cattle 
in  their  stalls  ;  the  bad  air  poisons  them.  Re- 
turning to  Cayla,  I  find  myself  in  a  palace 
compared  to  their  cottages.  Thus  it  is  that, 
having  habitually  to  look  beneath  me,  I  always 
find  myself  fortunately  placed. 

io//i.  —  Hoar  frost,  fog,  icy  prospect  ;  this  is 
all  I  see  to-day.  Accordingly  I  shall  not  stir 
out,  and  am  going  to  curl  myself  up  in  the 
chimney  corner  with  my  work  and  my  book  ; 
now  one,  now  the  other  —  the  alternation 
amuses  me  ;  and  yet  I  should  like  to  read  all 
day  long,  but  I  have  other  things  that  must  be 
done,  and  duty  goes  before  pleasure.  I  call 
pleasure  all  reading  that  is  in  no  way  essential 
to  me.  There  is  a  flea  !  —  a  flea  in  winter  ;  it 
is  a  present  from  "  Trilby."  Indeed  it  seems 
that  in  every  season  insects  are  devouring  us, 
whether  dead  or  alive  ;  the  least  numerous  of 
them  being  those  we  see  ;  for  our  teeth,  our 
skin,  our  whole  body,  is,  they  say,  full  of  them! 
Poor  human  body  !  to  think  of  our  soul  having 
to  dwell  in  such  an  abode  !     No  wonder  it  finds 


28  Journal  of 

little  pleasure  therein,  so  soon  as  it  takes  to 
reflecting  about  where  it  is  !  Oh.  the  glorious 
moment  when  it  issues  thence,  when  it  enjoys 
life  —  heaven  —  God  —  the  other  world!  Its 
amazement,  I  think,  would  resemble  that  of  the 
chicken  coming  out  of  its  shell,  if  only  the 
chick   had  a  soul. 

I  was  talking  to  you  about  reading  ;  in  the 
evening  it  is  a  '  History  of  Russia  '  that  we  are 
reading  out,  and  by  day  I  am  occupied  with  the 
'  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV.'  They  tell  me  that  this 
work  of  Voltaire's  is  fit  to  be  read,  and  so  it 
doubtless  is  ;  but  one  often  finds  the  Voltairian 
spirit  in  it,  every  time,  for  example,  that  the 
subject  of  religion  comes  up  ;  but  this  does  me 
no  harm.  Accordingly  I  go  on,  thinking  it  well 
written.  I  have  now  nothing  new  to  read. 
The  reports  of  the  Carrat  case  are  over,  and 
I  do  not  regret  them.  These  horrors  that  take 
place  under  our  eyes  are  more  horrible  than  any 
others.  The  three  murderers  are  sentenced  to 
death,  and  will  be  executed  at  Gaillac.  It  is 
true  that  Carrat  thinks  of  the  next  world,  and 
reads  '  Thomas  a  Kcmpis,'  and  this  does  not 
surprise  me  in  a  soul  now  under  the  scaffold, 
which  had  introduced  the  idea  of  heaven  even 
into  its  plans  of  murder.  He  never  set  out  on 
any  of  his  expeditions  without  providing  himself 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  29 

with  a  rosary  I  Strange  idea  I  "I  went  back 
the  night  of  the  crime,"  said  he,  "  to  fetch  my 
rosaries  that  I  had  forgotten  ;  and  I  ran  to 
Courtaud's  house."  It  was  there  that  he  as- 
sassinated three  persons  in  a  most  frightful  man- 
ner, a  man  and  two  women  ;  but  let  us  turn 
away  from  these  horrors.  A  beautiful  slice  of 
mullet  is  awaiting  me  on  the  gridiron.  I  am 
going  to  join  it. 

nth.  —  Fog  again  ;  same  sort  of  weather  as 
yesterday,  only  my  bird  is  singing,  which  ! 
know  to  be  an  augury  of  sunshine.  I  am  sure 
we  shall  soon  see  it.  It  is  now  only  nine 
o'clock  ;  before  twelve  it  will  have  made  its 
way  through  the  clouds,  and  we  shall  have  a 
bright  day,  which  will  rejoice  me  as  well  as 
my  bird,  for  I   do  not  like  gloom. 

Evening.  —  I  was  right  in  saying  that  my 
bird  foresaw  sunshine.  It  came,  but  pale  and 
cold  ;  the  fireside  was  far  before  it.  Accord- 
ingly we  did  not  leave  it,  except,  indeed,  Papa, 
who  went  out  to  make  an  offer  of  marriage  in 
the  village.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  refused  ; 
but  it  is  out  of  vexation  at  not  having  been  able 
to  say  Yes  to  some  one  else,  that  the  fair  lady 
said  No  to-day.  You  know  her  ;  it  is  the  one 
about  your  own  age,  and  who  was  waiting  for 
you  as  you  are  aware.     But  that  passed  over, 


30  Jon nuil  of 

and  her  recent  expectations  were  fixed  on 
another  who  equally  escaped  her.  The  poor 
girl,  whose  heart  was  in  it,  is  now  quite  un- 
happy, and  replied  to  the  suit  of  another  wooer 
that  she  would  not  fetter  herself.  This  may 
be  to  avoid  wearing  two  chains  ;  and,  if  so,  she 
is  right.  Regret  is  so  heavy  !  A  poor  stranger 
has  passed  by  ;  then  a  little  child.  This  is  all 
that  has  shown  itself  to-day.  Is  it  worth  telling 
of  it  :- 

12//;. —  I  begin  by  putting  down  the  date, 
and  then  we  shall  see  what  comes  for  my  daily 
chronicle.  Doubtless  not  much,  unless  it  be 
some  unexpected  occurrence,  which  I  hardly 
desire  ;  or  unless  there  be  a  letter  from  thee, 
or  from  the  mountains,  which  always  makes  me 
happy. 

Nothing  to  say,  nothing  to  write,  nothing  to 
think  ;  the  cold  seals  up  even  the  soul.  It  seems 
in  winter  as  though  one's  thoughts  no  longer 
circulated,  but  froze  in  one's  head  like  icicles. 
This  is  what  I  feel  often,  feel  just  now  ;  but  let 
something  pleasant  come  to  me  —  a  letter,  a 
book,  a  feeling  that  revives  — the  thaw  sets  in 
at  once,  and  the  waters  flow. 

Two  mendicant  friars  have  gone  by.  These 
poor  perished  people  looked  on  me  as  happy  to 
be   by  the   fireside,  and   to   have   something  to 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  31 

give  them.  Now  that  you  are  rich,  you  must 
often  give  alms.  I  know  you  like  to  do  so.  I 
remember  your  telling  me  that  you  never  met  a 
poor  man  without  giving  him  a  penny  if  you 
had  one.  That  penny  brought  you  good  luck. 
Give  one  sometimes  for  me.  What  I  give  here 
will  not  count,  because  I  have  nothing  exclu- 
sively my  own  ;  it  is  the  gift  of  the  whole 
community.  I  have  a  share  in  it,  but  it  is  a 
very  small  one.  Help  me.  If  I  were  at 
Paris,  I  should  often  put  my  hand  into  thy 
pocket. 

The  reign  of  Peter  I.  has  held  us  fast  the 
whole  evening.  It  is  an  interesting  reign.  One 
likes  to  see  all  that  can  be  done  by  genius 
and   .   .   . 

There  it  is  just  as  I  left  it  a  week  ago  !  I  don't 
know  who  came  to  call  me  off,  and  since  then 
how  many  new  ideas,  how  much  to  say  !  But 
everything  ought  not  to  get  said.  Of  what  use 
were  it  ?  God  only  can  understand  all,  and 
console  the  heart  when  sad. 

Last  day  of  December.  —  A  fortnight  has 
passed  without  my  adding  anything  here.  Do 
not  ask  me  why  ?  There  are  times  when  one 
does  not  want  to  speak,  things  one  does  not 
desire  to  tell.  Christmas  is  over,  beautiful  fes- 
tival, my  favourite  of  all,  which   brings   me  as 


32  Journal  of 

much  joy  as  to  the  shepherds  of  Bethlehem. 
Truly  the  whole  soul  sings  aloud  at  this  glad 
advent  of  God,  which  is  announced  on  all  sides 
by  carols  and  the  pretty  nadalet.1  Now  in  Paris 
nothing  gives  one  the  idea  of  its  being  Christ- 
mas. You  have  not  even  the  midnight  mass. 
We  all  went  to  it,  with  Papa  at  our  head,  by  an 
enchantingly  fine  night.  Never  was  there  a 
more  beatiful  sky  than  that  midnight  one,  so 
that  Papa  kept  putting  his  head  out  from  his 
cloak  from  time  to  time  to  look  up.  The  ground 
was  white  with  hoar  frost,  but  we  were  not 
cold  ;  and,  besides,  the  air  was  warmed  before 
us,  as  we  went,  by  the  bundles  of  fagots  that 
our  servants  carried  to  light  us.  It  was  charm- 
ing, I  assure  you,  and  I  wished  I  could  have 
seen  you  walking  along,  as  we  did,  towards  the 
church,  through  roads  bordered  with  little  white 
bushes,  that  looked  in  full  blossom.  The  frost 
makes  beautiful  flowers.  We  saw  one  sprig  so 
pretty  that  we  wanted  to  make  a  nosegay  of  it 
for  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  but  it  melted  in  our 
hands.  All  flowers  are  short-lived.  I  much 
regretted  my  bouquet  ;  it  was  sad  to  see  it  melt 
and  shrink  drop  by  drop.      I   slept  at  the  par- 

1  Name  given  to  a  particular  way  of  ringing  the  bells 
during  the  fortnight  preceding  Christmas  I^ay  ;  which,  in 
the  dialect  of  Languedoc  is  called  Nodal. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  33 

sonage.  The  good  sister  of  the  Cure  kept  me 
there,  and  prepared  me  an  excellent  riveillon 1 
of  hot  milk.  Papa  and  Mimi  returned  to  warm 
themselves  at  home  by  the  great  fire  of  the  Souc 
de  Nadal.2  Since,  there  has  come  cold,  fog, 
everything  that  darkens  the  sky  and  the  soul. 
To-day,  that  the  sun  shines  again,  I  revive  ;  I 
expand  like  the  pimpernel,  that  pretty  flower 
which  only  opens  to  the  sun. 

Here,  then,  are  my  last  thoughts,  for  I  shall 
write  nothing  more  this  year.  In  a  few  hours 
it  will  be  all  over  ;  we  shall  have  begun  the  new 
year.  Oh,  how  fast  the  time  flies  1  Alas  1  alas  I 
would  one  not  say  that  I  am  regretting  it  ?  My 
God,  no  ;  I  do  not  regret  either  time,  or  what 
it  takes  from  us.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  throw 
one's  affections  into  the  torrent.  But  the  empty, 
careless  days,  lost  as  regards  heaven,  these 
are  what  make  one  cast  a  regretful  glance  on 
life.  Dear  brother,  where  shall  I  be  on  this 
same  day,  at  this  same  time,  same  instant,  next 
year?  Shall  I  be  here  or  elsewhere?  Here 
below,  or  in  heaven  above  ?  God  knows  ;  and 
here  I  stand  at  the  gate  of  the  future,  resigning 
myself  to  whatever  may  issue  thence.     To-mor- 

1  Meal  taken  by  Catholics  after  returning  from  the  mid- 
night mass  on  Christmas  eve. 
2  Yule-log. 
vol.  1.  —  3 


34  Journal  of 

row  I    shall   pray   that  thou   mayest   be   happy  ; 
pray  for  Mimi,  for  Papa,  for  all    1   love.     It  is 
the  day  of  gifts  :    I    shall   take   mine   to  heaven. 
It  is  thence  that   I  derive  all  my  blessings;  for, 
truth  to  tell,  on  earth  I  find  but  few  things  to  my 
taste.     The  longer  1  live  in  it  the  less  I  enjoy 
it  ;  and  accordingly  I    see,  without  any  regret, 
the  approach  of  years,  which  are  so  many  steps 
towards  the  other  world.     It  is  neither  pain  nor 
sorrow  which  makes  me  feel  thus  ;  do  not  sup- 
pose it.     I  should  tell  thee  if  it  were  ;  it  is  only 
the  home-sickness  which  lays  hold  of  every  soul 
that  sets  itself  to  thinking  of  heaven.    The  hour 
strikes,  the  last   that    I    shall  hear  while  writing 
to  thee.     I  would  have  it  interminable,  like  all 
that   gives   pleasure.     How   many   hours    have 
sounded  from  that  old  clock,  that  dear  piece  of 
furniture  that  has  seen  so  many  of  us  pass,  with- 
out   ever   going   away  ;  as    it   were   a    kind  of 
eternity  !     I  am  fond  of  it,  because  it  has  struck 
all  the  hours  of  my  life,  the  fairest  ones  when  I 
did  not   listen   to  them.      I  can   remember  that 
my  crib  stood  at  its  foot,  and   I  used  to  amuse 
myself   in    watching    the    hands   move.      Time 
amuses  us  then  ;   I  was  fuur  years  old.     They 
are   reading  pretty  things   in  the   parlour.      My 
lamp  is  going  out  ;    I  leave  thee.    Thus  ends  my 
\car  beside  a  dying  lamp. 


Eugenie  de  G uer in.  35 

^rd  January,  1835.  —  A  letter  from  Brittany 
reached  me  this  morning,  like  a  sweet  New 
Year's  gift.  I  have  spent  the  whole  day  in  think- 
ing of  Madame  de  La  Morvonnais,  and  in  deci- 
phering the  handwriting  of  her  husband,  which 
is  by  no  means  a  plain  one.  Now,  however, 
I  have  made  it  out,  and  perfectly  understand  his 
idea,  but  I  cannot  respond  to  it.  The  poetess 
he  takes  me  for  is  an  ideal  being,  quite  apart 
from  the  life  that  I  lead,  a  life  of  occupation,  of 
housekeeping,  which  absorbs  all  my  time.  How 
can  it  possibly  be  otherwise  ?  I  know  not ; 
and,  moreover,  this  is  my  duty,  and  I  will  not 
depart  from  it.  Would  to  God  that  my  thoughts, 
my  soul,  had  never  winged  their  way  beyond 
the  narrow  sphere  in  which  I  am  forced  to  live. 
It  is  in  vain  to  talk  to  me  thus  ;  I  cannot  rise 
above  my  needle  or  my  distaff  without  going 
too  far.  I  feel,  I  believe  this.  I  shall  therefore 
remain  where  I  am  placed,  whatever  may  be 
said  about  it.  My  soul  will  inhabit  high  places 
only  in  heaven. 

<)th.  —  My  dear  friend,  for  two  days  I  have 
said  nothing  to  thee.  This  may  often  occur  ; 
now  for  one  thing,  now  for  another  ;  but,  if 
words  fail,  thought  is  always  at  work,  ever- 
turning  wheel  that  it  is,  and  turning  very  fast 
to-day.     I  ask  myself  whence   so  much  move- 


36  Journal  of 

ment  comes.  It  amazes  me,  sometimes  even 
saddens,  for  I  am  so  fond  of  repose  ;  not  in- 
action, but  that  calm  in  which  a  happy  soul 
abides  !  Saint  Stylites,  the  saint  of  to-day,  is 
admirable  up  there  on  his  column.  I  look 
upon  him  as  happy,  to  have  thus  made  himself 
a  dwelling  on  high,  and  not  even  to  touch 
earth  by  treading  on  it.  These  lives  of  the 
saints  are  wondrous  ;  charming  reading,  and 
full  of  instruction  for  a  believing  soul.  I  hear 
a  young  hen  of  ours  cackling  ;  I  must  go  and 
look  for  her  nest. 

6th.  —  A  beautiful  day,  sunshine,  Boubi !  one 
of  thy  letters.  Hast  not  thou  forgotten  this 
Boubi  !  these  wishes  of  children  on  Twelfth 
Night  ?  I  don't  very  well  know  what  they 
mean,  or  why  this  day  should  be  devoted  to 
wishes  for  wine,  for  that  is  what  the  children 
keep  crying,  while  we  give  them  walnuts  and 
apples  in  return  for  the  good  wine  they  wish 
us,  and  they  go  away  quite  pleased.  It  was 
••  La  Ratiere,"  thy  old  friend,  who  brought  us 
thy  letter,  not  omitting  to  inquire  first  if  it  was 
from  M.  Maurice;  and  next,  how  he  was,  and 
whether  he  was  still  very  far  off,  and  all  this 
with  a  show  of  interest  which  pleased  one.  I 
do  believe  that  if  you  had  been  there  she  would 
have  found  some  nuts  in  her  pocket.    With  us 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  37 

it  was  different  ;  it  is  only  to  friends  nuts  get 
given.  Thy  letter  charmed  me  by  its  cheerful 
tone  ;  the  fact  is,  thou  art  now  out  of  the  tem- 
pests and  shocks  that  have  so  long  harassed 
thee.  God  be  praised  for  this,  and  may  He 
keep  thee  at  anchor  1  I  always  hoped  that 
some  good  fortune  would  befall  thee. 

17th.  —  I  have  just  been  writing  to  Felicite. 
It  is  always  pen  or  books  that  I  lay  hold  of 
on  rising  ;  books  to  pray,  think,  reflect  over. 
This  would  be  my  occupation  all  day  long  if  I 
followed  my  bent,  that  something  in  me  which 
impels  me  to  meditation,  to  internal  contempla- 
tion. I  am  fond  of  dwelling  upon  my  thoughts, 
of  bending,  as  it  were,  over  each  one  of  them, 
to  inhale  and  enjoy  them  before  they  evaporate. 
This  taste  came  to  me  early.  When  I  was  quite 
a  child  I  used  to  indulge  in  little  soliloquies, 
which  would  be  full  of  charm  could  I  recover 
them  ;  but  't  is  in  vain  to  go  and  look  after 
childish  things  :  — 

"  Go  ask  for  water  from  the  fount  run  dry." 

The  little  Morvonnais  sends  me  a  kiss,  her 
mother  tells  me.  What  shall  I  give  her  in  re- 
turn for  a  thing  sosweet,  so  pure,  as  her  childish 
kiss?  It  seems  as  though  a  lily  had  touched 
my  cheek  :  — 


38  Journal  of 

Fain  would  I  run,  dear  child,  when  thou  dost  call ; 

Saving,  "  I  love  thee,  I  would  thee  caress  ;  " 
Spreading,  like  two  white  wings,  thine  arms  so  small, 

To  fold  me  in  a  soft  embrace. 

Oft  my  white  lambs  caress  me  in  their  play, 
My  dove  oft  pecks  my  lips  with  playful  beak  ; 

Hut  when  o'er  me  a  child's  warm  kisses  stray, 
'T  is  as  a  lily  bent  to  touch  my  cheek 

Fragrant  my  face  with  innocence  like  thine. 

My  spirit  made  at  length  all  pure  and  mild, 
Ineffable  delight  and  joy  divine  ! 

Would  that  I  had  thy  kisses,  blue-eyed  child  ! 

8th.  —  It  is  not  worth  while  to  say  anything 
about  to-day  ;  nothing  has  come,  nothing  has 
stirred,  nothing  has  got  done  in  our  solitude. 
My  little  bird  alone  has  kept  jumping  up  and 
down  in  its  cage  while  warbling  to  the  sun.  I 
often  looked  at  it,  having  nothing  prettier  to 
see  in  my  room.  I  have  not  left  it  ;  all  my 
time  has  been  spent  in  sewing  a  little,  in  read- 
ing, and  then  reflecting.  What  a  beautiful 
thing  thought  is,  and  what  pleasure  it  gives 
when  it  lifts  itself  on  high  !  T  is  its  natural 
direction,  which  it  resumes  as  soon  as  it  is  freed 
from  terrestrial  objects.  There  is  a  mysterious 
attraction  between  us  and  heaven.  God  wants 
us,  and  we  want  God.  I  don't  know  what  bird 
this  is  that  keeps  Hying  about  my  head.      I  hear 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  39 

it  almost  without  seeing  it ;  it  is  dark.  It  is 
not  the  season  of  night  birds.  This  is  enough 
to  disturb  me,  and  break  the  thread  I  was  wind- 
ing. How  little  suffices  !  This  small  appari- 
tion makes  me  leave  my  room,  not,  though, 
from  fright.  I  am  going  to  tell  Mimi  to  come 
and  see  this  bird. 

c)lh. — What,  I  wonder,  was  that  bird  of  yes- 
terday evening  ?  It  disappeared  like  a  vision 
the  moment  that  I  brought  the  candle,  and  I 
got  well  laughed  at  by  them  all.  They  said  it 
was  my  fancy  ;  that  I  had  seen  it  in  my  head. 
But,  for  all  that,  it  was  most  decidedly  with 
my  eyes  that  I  saw  it.  I  watched  it  for  more 
than  five  minutes,  and  it  was  the  noise  that  it 
made  in  flying  that  first  made  me  notice  it. 

ist  March. —  It  is  a  long  time  now  that  my 
journal  has  been  neglected.  I  came  upon  it  in 
opening  my  desk,  and  the  idea  of  leaving  a 
word  or  two  in  it  recurred  to  me.  Shall  I 
tell  thee  why  I  gave  it  up  ?  It  was  because 
I  looked  upon  the  time  spent  in  writing  as 
wasted.  We  owe  an  account  of  our  moments 
to  God  ;  and  is  it  not  spending  them  ill  to  trace 
down  here  days  that  go  by?  and  yet  I  find  a 
charm  in  it,  and  afterwards  like  to  look  over  the 
path  of  my  life  through  my  solitude.  On  re- 
opening this  book,  and  reading  some  pages  of  it, 


40  Journal  of 

it  occurred  to  me  that  in  twenty  years,  if  I  lived 
as  long,  it  would  be  an  exquisite  pleasure  to  me 
to  re-read  it,  to  find  myself  once  more  here,  as 
in  a  mirror  that  should  retain  my  youthful  fea- 
tures. I  am  not  young,  however  ;  but  at  fifty  I 
shall  consider  that  I  was  young  now.  There- 
fore I  will  give  myself  this  pleasure  ;  if  a  scru- 
ple returns,  I  will  put  the  book  by  at  once. 
But  the  good  God  may,  perhaps,  be  less  strict 
than  my  conscience,  and  forgive  me  this  small 
pastime.  To-morrow,  then,  I  will  resume  my 
journal.  I  must  record  my  happiness  of  yester- 
day,—  a  very  sweet,  very  pure  happiness,  a  kiss 
from  a  poor  creature  to  whom  I  was  giving 
alms.  That  kiss  seemed  to  my  heart  like  a  kiss 
given  by  God. 

jrrf.  —  Everything  was  singing  this  morning 
while  I  was  at  my  prayers  —  thrushes,  (inches, 
and  my  little  linnet.  It  was  just  like  spring  ;  and 
this  evening  here  we  have  clouds,  cold,  gloom, 
winter  again  —  melancholy  winter.  I  don't 
much  like  it  ;  but  each  season  must  be  good, 
since  God  has  made  them  all.  Therefore,  let 
frost,  wind,  snow,  fogs,  clouds,  weather  of  every 
description,  be  welcome  !  Is  it  not  sinful  to 
complain  when  one  is  warm  and  comfortable 
beside  the  lire,  while  so  many  poor  people  are 
shivering   out  of  doors  r     At  twelve   o'clock  a 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  41 

beggar  found  great  delight  in  a  plateful  of  hot 
soup  that  was  given  to  him  at  the  door,  and  did 
perfectly  well  without  sunshine.  Surely,  then, 
so  may  I.  The  fact  is,  one  longs  for  something 
pleasant  this  day  of  general  amusement,  and  we 
wanted  to  keep  our  Shrove  Tuesday  in  the  sun, 
out  of  doors,  and  in  taking  long  walks  ;  whereas 
we  have  been  obliged  to  limit  ourselves  to  the 
hamlet,  where  every  one  wanted  to  feast  us. 
We  thanked,  without  taking  anything,  as  we 
had  had  dinner.  The  little  children  came  about 
us  like  chickens.  I  made  them  prick  some  nuts 
that  I  had  put  into  my  pocket  to  give  them. 
Twenty  years  hence  they  will  remember  our 
visit,  because  we  gave  them  something  good, 
and  the  memory  will  be  pleasant.  Those  were 
well  employed  nuts.  I  did  not  write  yesterday, 
because  I  thought  it  was  not  worth  while  to 
write  down  nothings.  It  is  the  same,  however, 
to-day.  All  our  days  are  pretty  nearly  alike, 
but  only  as  to  what  is  external.  The  life  of  the 
soul  is  different  ;  nothing  more  varied,  changing 
constantly.  Don't  let  us  speak  of  it  ;  there 
would  be  no  end  of  it,  if  it  were  only  about  one 
single  hour.  I  am  going  to  write  to  Louise  : 
this  by  way  of  fixing  myself  in  a  happy  mood. 

4//i.  —  This  morning  I  hung  up  beside  Papa's 
bed  a  little  cross  that  a  little  girl  gave  him  yes- 


42  Journal  of 

terday,  out  of  thankfulness  to  him  for  having 
placed  her  in  the  convent.  It  was  Christine 
Roquier.  Her  pious  present  was  very  pleasing 
to  us,  and  we  shall  preserve  it  as  a  relic  of  grat- 
itude. Papa's  cup  of  holy  water  shall  be  placed 
between  this  cross  and  a  picture  of  Calvary. 
This  picture,  torn  as  it  is,  I  have  a  value  for, 
because  I  have  always  seen  it  there,  and  that 
when  a  child  I  used  to  go  and  say  my  prayers 
before  it.  I  remember  to  have  asked  many 
favours  from  the  holy  image.  I  used  to  state 
all  my  little  griefs  to  that  sad  figure  of  the 
dying  Saviour,  and  always  I  found  consolation. 
Once  I  had  spots  on  my  frock  that  distressed 
me  greatly  for  fear  of  being  scolded  about  them  ; 
I  prayed  my  picture  to  make  them  disappear, 
and  they  disappeared.  How  this  gracious  mir- 
acle made  me  love  the  good  God  I  From  that  day 
I  believed  nothing  impossible  to  prayer  or  to  my 
favourite  image,  and  I  asked  it  for  whatever  I 
wanted  :  once  that  my  dull  might  have  a  soul  ; 
but  on  that  occasion  I  obtained  nothing.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  only  one. 

"//(.  —  To-day  a  new  hearthstone  has  been 
placed  in  the  kitchen.  I  have  just  been  standing 
upon  it,  and  I  note  down  here  this  sort  of  con- 
secration of  the  Stone,  of  which  the  stone  will 
retain  no  trace.     It  is  an  event  here,  this  stone, 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  43 

somewhat  like  a  new  altar  in  a  church.  Every 
one  goes  to  see  it,  and  hopes  to  pass  pleasant 
hours  and  a  long  life  before  this  hearth  of  the 
house  (for  all  gather  there,  masters  and  servants). 
But  who  can  tell  ?  .  .  .  I  myself  shall  perhaps 
be  the  first  to  leave.  My  mother  departed  early, 
and  they  say  that  I  am  like  her. 

8th.  —  Last  night  I  had  a  grand  dream.  The 
ocean  came  up  under  our  windows.  I  saw  it ; 
I  heard  its  billows  rolling  like-  thunder,  for  it 
was  of  a  sea  in  storm  that  I  had  this  vision,  and 
I  was  terrified. 

A  young  elm  springing  up,  with  a  bird  singing 
on  it,  dispelled  this  terror.  I  listened  to  the 
bird  :  no  more  ocean  and  no  more  dreams. 

9//?.  — The  day  broke  mild  and  beautiful  ;  no 
rain  or  wind.  My  bird  was  singing  all  morning 
long,  and  I  too,  for  I  felt  cheerful,  and  had  a 
presage  of  some  happiness  for  to-day.  Here  it 
is,  my  friend  :  it  is  a  letter  from  thee  !  Oh,  if 
I  only  got  such  every  day  1  I  must  now  write 
to  Louise. 

While  I  was  writing,  the  clouds  and  wind  all 
returned.  Nothing  more  variable  than  the  sky 
and  one's  own  soul !     Good-night  ! 

10th.  — Oh,  the  beautiful  moonbeam  that  has 
just  fallen  on  the  Gospel  that  I  was  reading  ! 

nth. — To-day,  at  five  o'clock  in   the  morn- 


44  Journal  of 

ing,  fifty-seven  years  had  elapsed  since  my  father 
came  into  the  world.  We  all  went  —  he,  Mimi, 
and  I  —  to  church  as  soon  as  we  were  up,  to 
celebrate  this  anniversary  and  to  hear  mass.  To 
pray  God  is  indeed  the  only  way  to  celebrate 
anything  here  below.  Accordingly,  I  have 
prayed  a  great  deal  on  this  day,  when  the  most 
tender,  most  loving,  best  of  fathers  was  born. 
May  God  preserve  him  to  us,  and  add  to  his 
years  so  many  more  that  I  shall  not  see  them 
end  !  My  God  !  no,  I  would  not  be  the  last  to 
die  ;  to  go  to  heaven  before  all  the  rest  would  be 
my  delight.  But  why  speak  of  death  on  a  birth- 
day ?  It  is  because  life  and  death  are  sisters,  and 
born  together  like  twins. 

To-morrow  I  shall  not  be  here.  I  shall  have 
left  thee,  my  dear  little  room  !  Papa  takes  me 
with  him  to  Caylus.  This  journey  gives  me 
little  satisfaction  :  I  do  not  like  going  away, 
changing  place,  or  sky,  or  life  ;  and  all  these 
change  when  we  travel.  Adieu,  then,  my  con- 
fidant!  thou  must  wait  for  me  in  my  desk.  Who 
knows  when  we  shall  meet  again  r  I  say  in  a 
week  ;  but  who  can  reckon  upon  anything  in 
this  world  ?  Nine  years  ago  I  spent  a  month  at 
Caylus.  It  will  not  be  without  pleasure  that  I 
shall  see  the  place  again,  as  well  as  my  cousin, 
her  daughter,  and  the  good  chevalier  who  used 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  45 

to  be  so  fond  of  me.  They  will  have  it  that  he 
is  still  so  ;  I  am  going  to  find  out.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  he  may  be  the  same,  but  he  will  find 
me  much  changed  since  ten  years  ago.  Ten 
years  are  a  whole  age  for  a  woman  ;  so  we 
shall  be  about  contemporaries,  for  the  worthy 
man  is  over  fourscore. 

12th.  —  It  was  a  real  distress  to  me  to  go 
away  ;  Papa  discovered  it  and  left  me  behind. 
He  said  to  me  last  night,  "  Do  as  you  like."  I 
wanted  to  stay,  and  felt  quite  sad,  thinking  that 
to-night  I  should  be  far  away  from  here,  far 
from  Mimi,  from  my  fire,  my  little  room,  my 
books ;  far  from  Trilby,  far  from  my  bird  ; 
everything,  down  to  the  merest  trifle,  presents 
itself  when  you  are  about  to  leave,  and  so  twines 
itself  around  you  that  there  is  no  breaking  loose. 
This  is  my  experience,  whenever  there  is  any 
talk  of  a  journey.  Like  the  dove,  I  like  to  return 
every  evening  to  my  nest.  No  other  spot 
attracts  me. 

I  love  but  the  flowers  our  own  streamlets  keep  bright, 
But  the  meadows  whose  grass  I  have  oft  trodden  down, 

But  the  woods  on  whose  branches  our  own  birds  alight, 
But  my  every-day  sky,  my  horizon  long  known. 

Nine  o'clock  !  this  is  the  hour  that  the  pious 
soul  hears  strike  with  most  recollection.  It 
was  at  the  ninth    hour,   the  Gospel    tells   us, 


46  Journal  of 

that  darkness  covered  the  earth  while  Jesus 
hung  upon  the  cross.  It  was  also  at  the  ninth 
hour  that  the  Holy  Spirit  descended  upon  the 
Apostles.  Accordingly,  this  hour  has  been 
blessed  by  the  Church,  and  consecrated  to 
prayer.  It  is  then  that  the  canons  begin  their 
services. 

14//2.  —  This  has  been  one  of  my  happy  days  : 
of  those  days  that  begin  and  end  sweet  as  a  cup 
of  milk.     God   be  praised  for  this  day,    spent 
without  any  sadness  !     Such  are  so  rare  in  life  ; 
and  my  soul,  more  than  any  other,  afflicts  itself 
about   the  least  thing.     A  word,  a   memory,  a 
tone  of  voice,  a  sad  expression  of  face,  a  name- 
less  nothing,  will  often  disturb  the   serenity  of 
my  spirit  —  small   sky,  that  the   lightest  clouds 
can  tarnish.     This  morning   I    received  a  letter 
from  Gabrielle,  that  cousin  who  is  dear  to  me 
on   account   of  her   gentleness    and    her   sweet 
disposition.     I   was  anxious  about   her   always 
delicate  health,  having  heard  nothing  of  her  for 
more  than  a  month,  and  thus  her  letter  gave  me 
so  much   pleasure  that   I    opened   it  before  my 
prayers  ;   I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  read  it.     To 
see  a  letter  and  not  open  it  is  a  thing  impossible. 
So  I  read  it.     Amongst  other  things,  I  saw  that 
Gabrielle   did  not  approve  my  taste  for  retire- 
ment   and    renouncement   of    the    world.     The 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  47 

reason  is  that  she  does  not  know  me  ;  that  she 
is  younger  than  I,  and  has  not  discovered  that 
there  is  an  age  when  the  heart  becomes  indif- 
ferent to  whatever  does  not  give  it  life.  The 
world  may  enchant,  may  intoxicate  it  ;  but  this 
is  not  life,  which  is  only  found  in  God  and  in 
one's  self.  To  be  alone  with  God,  oh,  happiness 
supreme  ! 

At  Cahuzac  I  had  another  letter  given  me. 
This  last  was  from  Lili,  another  sweet  friend,  but 
one  quite  out  of  the  world  :  a  pure  soul,  a  soul 
like  snow  in  its  innocence,  so  white  that  I  am 
dazzled  when  I  look  at  it  —  a  soul  made  for 
the  eyes  of  God.  She  bids  me  go  to  her,  but  I 
will  not  leave  home  before  Easter.  After  that 
I  shall  go  to  Rayssac,  and  on  my  way  back  shall 
remain  as  long  as  I  can  with  Lili.  I  was  return- 
ing from  Cahuzac  quite  pleased  with  my  letter, 
when  I  saw  a  little  boy  beside  the  fountain  cry- 
ing in  a  heartbreaking  way.  It  was  because  he 
had  broken  his  jug,  and  the  poor  child  was  afraid 
of  being  beaten  by  his  father.  Not  that  he 
himself  told  me  so  ;  he  was  sobbing  too  vio- 
lently ;  but  some  women  did  who  had  seen  the 
jug  fall.  Poor  little  fellow  !  I  saw  that  I  might 
easily  console  him  by  an  outlay  of  sixpence  ; 
and,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  I  led  him  to 
the  crockery  shop,  where   he   replaced   his  jug. 


4^  Journal  of 

Charles  X.  could  not  be  happier  if  he  regained 
his  crown.     Was  this  not  indeed  a  sweet  day  ? 

i  <)th.  —  Mud,  rain,  a  wintry  sky  —  inconve- 
nient weather  for  a  Sunday  ;  but  it  is  all  one  to 
me,  just  the  same  as  sunshine.  Not  through 
indifference  though  :  I  prefer  fine  weather  ;  but 
all  weather  is  good.  When  there  is  serenity 
within,  what  matters  the  rest  r  I  went  to 
Lentin,  where  I  heard  very  bad  preaching,  as  I 
thought.  That  beautiful  Word  of  God,  how 
disfigured  it  gets  passing  through  certain  lips  ! 
One  needs  to  know  beforehand  that  it  comes 
from  heaven.  I  am  going  to  vespers  in  spite  of 
the  weather.  I  brought  back  a  flower  from 
Andillac,  the  first  I  have  seen  this  year.  There 
were  some  like  it  at  the  altar  of  the  Virgin,  whose 
feet  they  perfumed.  It  is  the  custom  among 
our  village  girls  to  offer  her  the  first  flowers  of 
their  gardens  —  a  pious  and  charming  custom  : 
nothing  better  adorns  a  country  altar.  I  leave 
my  flower  here  as  a  souvenir  of  the  Sunday 
nearest  to  spring. 

1 6th.  —  Another  letter  from  G ;  a  letter  to 

announce  her  marriage.  How  little  I  thought  of 
it  !  She  is  so  young,  so  delicate,  so  fragile  !  One 
sees  only  a  spark  of  vitality  in  that  little  childish 
frame.  My  God,  how  much  I  desire  her  happi- 
ness !   but     do  not  feel  sure  ...    I  see  nothing 


Eugenie  de  Gueriii.  49 

bright  in  the  prospect  of  her  marriage.  I  must, 
however,  offer  her  my  congratulations  :  it  is  the 
custom.  I  have  spent  the  whole  day  thinking 
of  her,  trying  to  picture  to  myself  her  future, 
and  pondering  those  words  in  her  letter,  "  /  am 
calm  only  when  on  my  knees." 

\-jlh.  —  It  is  an  entirely  fresh  heart  this  of 
G— — -'s,  and  therefore  she  may  be  happy  if  her 
husband  prove  amiable,  because  she  will  love 
him  with  all  the  charm  of  a  first  affection. 

I  am  listening  to  the  shepherd  whistling  in 
the  valley.  This  is  the  most  cheerful  sound  that 
can  proceed  from  human  lips.  This  whistle 
denotes  an  absence  of  care,  a  sense  of  well- 
being,  an  /  ani  content,  which  pleases  me.  These 
poor  people  must  needs  have  something  or  other : 
they  have  cheerfulness.  Two  little  children  are 
also  singing  while  making  up  their  fagot  of 
branches  among  the  sheep.  From  time  to  time 
they  interrupt  themselves  to  laugh  or  play,  the 
sense  of  their  responsibilities  escaping  them.  I 
should  like  to  watch  their  proceedings,  and  to 
listen  to  the  blackbird  singing  in  the  hedge 
beside  the  brook  ;  but  I  mean  to  read.  It  is 
Massillon  that  I  am  reading,  now  that  we  are 
in  Lent.  I  admire  his  Friday's  discourse  on 
prayer,  which  is  really  a  hymn. 

i8//i.  — This  morning  the  shepherd  informed 
vol.  1.  —  4 


5<d  Journal  of 

me  of  the  arrival  of  the  wagtails  ;  one  has  fol- 
lowed the  flock  the  whole  Jay.  This  is  a  good 
omen:  we  shall  soon  have  flowers.  It  is  also 
believed  that  these  birds  bring  good  luck  to  the 
flocks.  The  shepherds  revere  them  as  a  species 
of  genii,  and  would  on  no  account  kill  one;  if 
that  misfortune  happened,  the  finest  sleep  in  the 
flock  would  be  sure  to  die  1  I  only  wish  this 
simple  credulity  preserved  in  like  manner  many 
other  small  birds  that  our  rustics  so  cruelly 
destroy,  and  about  which  I  used  to  fret  not  a 
little  formerly.  The  sorrows  of  the  nests  were 
one  of  my  childish  griefs.  I  used  to  think  about 
the  mothers  and  the  children,  and  I  was  mis- 
erable not  to  be  able  to  protect  the  innocent 
creatures.     I  used  to  recommend  them  to  God. 

I  said  :  My  God,  or  let  them  not  be  born, 

Or  from  misfortune  guard  ; 
Guard  these  poor  fledgelings,  Thou  who  hast  the  power, 

From  vulture's  claw,  and  hands  and  hearts  as  hard. 

Some  have  I  seen  from  ivy-curtained  nest, 

Some  from  tall  trees,  or  sand  holes,  snatched  away. 

And  sad  as  I,  when  shut  from  aii  and  light, 
All  perished  in  a  day. 

And  all  had  sung,  and  all  — their  wings  once  grown  — 
1 1. id  down  through  forests  and  at  ross  the  seas, 

And  with  young  flowers  the  swallows  had  returned 

Upon  the  vernal  breeze. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  51 

You  'd  watch  them,  children,  flying  'neath  the  clouds, 
You  VI  hear  them  sing  at  morn  the  summer  long; 

Oh,  how  much  better  than  to  see  them  caged  ! 
No  liberty,  no  song  ! 

i ()th.  —  I  don't  know  where  these  birds  might 
not  have  led  me,  so  many  memories  did  they 
awaken  and  such  tenderness  did  I  feel  towards 
them.  Here  I  am  now  filled  with  joyous  expec- 
tation ;  Papa  is  coming  back  this  evening.  I  am 
longing  for  him  ;  a  week's  absence  is  long  when 
people  are  not  accustomed  to  be  separated. 
Moreover,  this  is  the  festival  of  Saint  Joseph, 
the  saint  Papa  is  named  after  ;  it  cannot  fail  to 
be  a  beautiful  day  ;  I  celebrated  it  by  going  to 
hear  mass, — that  is  my  "bouquet;11  prayers 
are  divine  flowers. 

20th.  —  Papa  has  arrived,  fresh,  well,  and 
delighted  with  the  reception  given  him  at  my 
cousin's  of  La  Gardelle.  The  evening  was 
spent  in  talking  of  that  nice  family,  who  love  us, 
of  their  neighbours,  their  Cure.  The  life  of 
country  cures  is  interesting,  and  I  like  to  be 
told  about  it.  In  short,  what  with  one  thing 
and  the  other,  we  had  plenty  to  talk  about  till 
after  ten  o'clock,  when  each  of  us  is  about  to 
go  to  sleep  as  usual,  without  having  heard  all 
there  was  to  hear. 

I    have    no    inclination   to  write   to-day,  and 


52  Journal  of 

would  rather  sew.  The  needle  suits  me  better 
than  the  pen  ;  I  return  to  it.  The  first  thing  this 
morning  we  had  a  letter  from  Marie,  and  a  re- 
port of  '  The  Propagation  of  the  Faith,"  —  some- 
thing for  the  heart  and  something  for  the  soul. 
Marie  sends  us  loving  words  ;  the  missionaries 
tell  us  of  conversions.  How  admirable  these 
men  are  ;  how  gladly  I  give  them  my  weekly 
penny  !  I  should  like  to  see  thee  enrolled  in 
this  association. 

215/. —  I  believe  that  to-day  is  the  first  of 
spring.  I  should  not  have  discovered  it ;  the 
cold  and  the  east  wind  blowing  would  lead  one 
to  suppose  it  January.  In  a  short  time  the  cold 
will  go  away  :  patience,  poor  impatient  one  that 
I  am,  longing  to  see  flowers,  a  bright  sky,  —  to 
breathe  an  air  all  balmy  with  spring  !  When  that 
comes  to  pass  I  shall  have  numbered  a  few  more 
days,  perhaps  a  few  more  cares  ;  and  this  is  how 
our  enjoyments  come  !  However,  I  had  a  de- 
lightful waking  this  morning.  As  I  was  open- 
ing my  eyes  a  lovely  moon  faced  my  window, 
and  shone  into  my  bed,  so  brightly  that  at  first 
I  thought  it  was  a  lamp  suspended  to  my  shut- 
ter. It  was  very  sweet  and  pretty  to  look  at 
this  white  light,  and  so  I  contemplated,  admired, 
watched  it  till  it  hid  itself  behind  the  shutter,  to 
peep  out  again,  and  then  conceal  itself  like  a 
child  playing  at  hide-and-seek. 


Eugenie  de  Gueriit  53 

I  have  been  to  confession  ;  I  reflected  for 
some  time  upon  the  gentle,  beautiful,  moral 
lessons  of  M.  Bories,  then  I  wrote  to  Louise, 
and  now  here  :  how  many  sweet  things  I  have 
to  do  !  Were  I  to  write  them  all  down  just 
now  I  should  write  too  much  ;  I  should  not  be 
able  to  sleep,  and  I  must  sleep  to  be  able  to 
think  of  God  and  pray  to  Him  to-morrow, 
which  is  Sunday.  This  fragile  body  that  con- 
tains the  soul  must  be  considered.  This  is 
tiresome  ;  but  what  can  be  done  ?  The  angels 
have  no  such  anxiety,  —  happy  angels  ! 

24//1.  —  I  see  beautiful  sunshine  coming  in 
from  without  to  light  up  my  little  room.  This 
brightness  glorifies  it  and  keeps  me  here,  though 
I  want  to  go  downstairs.  I  am  so  fond  of 
what  comes  down  from  heaven  !  Moreover,  I 
admire  my  wall  all  tapestried  with  sunbeams, 
and  a  chair  over  which  they  fall  like  drapery. 
Never  had  I  a  more  beautiful  room.  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  be  in  it  and  to  enjoy  it  as  some- 
thing of  one's  own.  Oh,  what  lovely  weather  ! 
I  long  to  be  revelling  in  it,  inhaling  great 
draughts  of  the  air,  so  genial  to-day  ;  but  this 
will  be  for  the  afternoon.  This  morning  I  have 
to  write.  Yesterday  three  persons  and  some 
books  arrived,  all  friendly  visits.  The  after- 
noon passed  in  chatting,  in  listening  to  all  sorts 


54  journal  of 

of  things  that  Madame  Roquier  has  a  way  of 
relating  as  interesting  news,  or  in  amusing  her 
little  girl,  a  child  of  four,  fresh  as  a  first  rose. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  kiss  her  round  cheeks  and 
to  see  her  nibbling  jumbles.  Mimi  and  I  are 
both  invited  to  attend  the  benediction  of  a  bell 
to-morrow.  This  expedition  is  by  no  means 
displeasing  to  me. 

26th.  —  T  is  a  pretty  thing,  a  bell  surrounded 
by  tapers  and  clothed  in  white,  like  a  child  about 
to  be  baptised.  They  anoint  it,  sing,  then  test 
it,  and  it  makes  answer  by  a  little  tinkling  that 
it  is  a  Christian  bell,  and  will  ring  for  God. 
For  what  besides,  —  for  it  answers  twice  r 
"  For  all  the  holy  things  of  earth,  —  for  birth, 
death,  prayer,  sacrifice  ;  for  the  righteous  ;  for 
sinners.  In  the  morning  I  will  announce  the 
dawn,  in  the  evening  the  fall  of  day  ;  a  heavenly 
timepiece,  I  will  ring  the  Angelus  and  the  holy 
hours  when  God  wills  to  be  praised.  At  my  call 
pious  souls  will  pronounce  the  name  of  Jesus, 
of  Mary,  or  of  some  much-loved  saint ;  their 
glances  will  rise  to  heaven,  or  within  the  church 
walls  their  heart  will  distil  itself  into  love." 

This  I  thought  and  other  things  besides,  in 
the  presence  of  that  small  bell  at  Itzac  which  I 
saw  blessed  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  that  looked 
on  without,  as  it  seemed,  thinking  of  anything. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  55 

and  who  were  equally  taken  up  with  us  and  the 
bell.  Two  young  ladies  were  in  fact  curious 
and  quite  novel  things  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Itzac.     Poor  creatures  ! 

27//1.  —  At  two  o'clock  Papa  set  out  for 
Alby,  where  Lili  requires  him  on  account  of 
her  affairs  So  here  we  are  alone  again  for  1 
know  not  how  many  days,  for  it  is  possible 
that  Papa  may  go  to  Rayssac.  If  so  I  shall 
have  news  of  Louise  when  he  returns.  I  am 
impatient  for  them ;  for  a  long  time  I  have 
known  nothing  of  this  dear  friend.  It  is  not 
that  she  forgets  me,  —  that  I  cannot  think.  If  I 
thought  it.  .  .  .  No,  no  ;  Louise  loves  me  and 
will  always  be  my  friend.  That  is  a  settled 
point,  and  we  are  no  longer  at  the  beginning 
of  things,  when  doubts  regarding  our  friendship 
might  be  possible.  It  is  either  because  she 
cannot  write  to  me,  or  that  the  charcoal-burners 
lose  letters.  Tiresome  people  !  if  they  only 
knew  what  they  lose  ! 

28//?. —  I  have  just  escaped  a  sorrow;  my 
little  linnet  was  actually  in  the  cat's  claws  when 
I  entered  my  room.  I  saved  it  by  giving  a  great 
cuff  to  the  cat,  who  let  go.  The  bird  was  only 
frightened  ;  then  it  felt  so  delighted  at  its  de- 
liverance that  it  began  singing  with  all  its  might, 
as  if  to  thank  me  and  assure  me  that  terror  had 


56  Journal  of 

not  deprived  it  of  its  voice.     A   cowherd  who 
passes  along  the  Cordes  road  also  sings  as  he 
drives  his  cart  ;  but  with  such  a  listless,  insipid 
expression   that    1    prefer    the    warbling  of    the 
linnet.     When  I  am  here  alone  I  take  pleasure 
in  listening  to  all  that  stirs  outside  ;   I  lend  my 
ear  to   every   sound  :    the   cackling  of   a    hen, 
branches  falling,  the  buzz  of  a  fly,  —  whatever 
it    be.  it    interests    and  gives   me   subjects  for 
thought.      How  often  I   fall  to  contemplate  and 
follow   the   movements  of   very  minute  insects 
that  I  discover  in  the  pages  of  a  book,  on   the 
tiles,    or  on   the   table  !      I    do  not   know   their 
name,  but  we  come  into  a  kind  of  relationship 
as  of  passers-by    along   the   same    road.      We 
lose  sight  of,   then   we   meet  each  other  again 
by  chance,  and  the  meeting  gives  me  pleasure  ; 
but  the  little  creatures   fly  from   me.   though   I 
have  never  done  them  harm.      It  seems  that   I 
must  be  very  alarming  to  them.     Would  it  have 
been  so   in    Paradise  ?     We  are   not   told    that 
Eve  frightened   anything   there.       It    was   only 
after  the  fall   that   mutual  terror   sprung  up  be- 
tween  created    things.      I    really  must  write   to 
Philibert. 

20//;.  —  Yesterday  evening  I  began  my  letter 
lo  over  the  seas,  which  I  write  with  inexpres- 
sible   interest    on   account  of  the    memories   it 


Eugenie  de  Giierin.  57 

awakes  and  the  dangers  it  will  have  to  en- 
counter. Is  it  possible  that  a  sheet  of  paper 
cast  upon  the  ocean  should  reach  its  address, 
should  just  go  and  fall  under  the  very  eyes  of 
my  cousin  in  his  island  ?  It  is  incredible  unless 
some  angel  navigator  take  the  letter  under  his 
wing.  This  Isle  of  France  is  in  fact  at  the 
very  end  of  the  world.  Poor  Philibert  !  How 
far  away  from  here  he  is,  and  how  much  to  be 
pitied  1  he  who  is  so  fond  of  his  country,  his 
relatives,  his  beautiful  European  sky.  I  re- 
member the  last  evening  we  spent  together,  and 
how  ecstatically  he  contemplated  those  stars  of 
his  own  land  which  were  soon  to  disappear 
from  him. 

He  especially  regretted  the  Pole-star,  which 
one  sees  no  more  after  crossing  the  line.  Then 
it  is  that  the  Southern  Cross  comes  into  sight. 
The  Southern  Cross  is  very  beautiful,  but 
"never,"  he  said  to  me,  "have  I  looked  at  it, 
or  at  any  of  our  African  constellations,  so  long 
as  at  that  little  northern  star  :  — 

'  Stars  of  the  beautiful  sky  of  France, 

Of  the  beautiful  land  of  my  birth, 
I  shall  see  you  no  more  —  with  the  ocean  between  — 

At  the  uttermost  end  of  the  earth, 
Where  my  days  will  pass  in  sadness  and  sighs, 
Seeing  no  longer  you  —  seeing  other  skies, 

Stars  of  the  beautiful  sky  of  France  1  * " 


58  Journal  of 

This  it  was,  methinks.  our  poor  cousin  was 
saying  to  me,  and  it  made  my  heart  ache.  How 
much  to  be  pitied  arc  all  exiles  !  Nothing 
pleases  them  while  absent  from  their  own  coun- 
try. With  his  wife  and  children  Phihbert  is 
sad  in  Africa;  in  France  he  would  have  been 
happy. 

30//;. — Two  letters  have  come:  the  one  of 
joy,  an  announcement  of  the  marriage  of  Sophie 
Decazes  ;  the  other  of  mourning,  to  tell  us  of 
death.  This  last  is  from  M.  de  La  Morvonnais, 
who  writes  to  me  weeping,  quite  full  of  his 
dear  Marie.  How  he  loved  her,  and  loves  her 
still  1  They  were  two  souls  that  could  not  bear 
to  leave  each  other.  Accordingly  they  will  re- 
main united  in  spite  of  death,  and  separated 
from  the  body  where  no  life  is.  This  is  Chris- 
tian union,  a  union  spiritual,  immortal  ;  a  divine 
tie  formed  by  the  love,  the  charity  that  never 
dieth.  Hippolvte  in  his  widower  slate  is  not 
alone  ;  he  sees  Marie,  Marie  everywhere,  Marie 
always.  '•  Speak  to  me  of  her.  always  "t"  her," 
he  says  :  and  again.  "  Write  to  me  often  ;  you 
have  certain  modes  of  expression  that  vividly 
recall  her  to  me."  I  was  not  the  least  aware 
of  this  ;  it  is  God's  doing,  who  has  infused  into 
my  soul  some  things  akin  to  that  other  soul. 
That  is  why  she  loved  me  and  I  her :  sympathy 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  59 

springs  from  relation  of  souls;  and  then,  more- 
over, I  found  in  Marie  something  infinitely  gen- 
tle, that  I  so  delight  in,  that  can  only  emanate 
from  a  pure  spirit.  "The  true  mark,  of  inno- 
cence," says  Bossuet,  "  is  gentleness."  How 
many  charms,  what  advantages,  I  should  have 
enjoyed  in  this  celestial  friendship  !  God  de- 
cided otherwise,  and  has  taken  it  away  just  one 
year  after  it  was  first  granted  me.  Why  so 
soon  }  No  complaining  !  God  does  not  allow  it 
on  account  of  what  He  removes  from  us,  or  of  a 
few  days  of  separation.  Those  who  die  do  not 
go  so  far  away  after  all  ;  for  heaven  is  quite 
close  to  every  one  of  us.  We  have  but  to  raise 
our  eyes  and  we  see  their  dwelling.  Let  us 
console  ourselves  by  that  sweet  prospect  ;  let 
us  become  resigned  on  earth,  which  is  but  a 
step  to  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

1st  April.  —  So  then  a  month  has  passed,  half 
sad,  half  beautiful,  much  like  the  whole  of  life. 
This  month  of  March  has  some  gleams  of 
spring,  which  are  very  sweet ;  it  is  the  first  to 
see  any  flowers, — a  few  pimpernels  that  open 
a  little  to  the  sun,  some  violets  in  the  woods 
under  the  dead  leaves  that  screen  them  from 
the  hoar  frost.  The  little  children  amuse  them- 
selves with  them  and  call  them  March  jlavers, 
—  a  very  appropriate  name.     We  dry  them  too 


60  Journal  of 

to  make  "  tea  "  of  them.  This  flower  is  good 
and  soothing  for  colds,  and,  like  hidden  virtue, 
its  perfume  betrays  it.  Swallows  have  been 
seen  to-day,  glad  harbingers  of  sprint;. 

2nd. —  To-day  my  whole  soul  turns  from  the 
sky  to  a  tomb  ;  for  on  it  sixteen  years  ago  my 
mother  died  at  midnight.  This  sad  anniversary 
is  sacred  to  mourning  and  prayer.  I  have  spent 
it  before  God  in  regret  and  hope  ;  even  while  I 
weep  I  look  up  and  see  the  heavens  where  my 
mother  is  doubtless  happy,  for  she  suffered  so 
much  —  the  illness  was  long  and  her  spirit 
patient.  I  do  not  remember  a  single  com- 
plaint escaping  her,  nor  that  she  cried  out  ever 
so  slightly  in  spite  of  the  pain  that  tore  her  ;  no 
Christian  ever  bore  suffering  better.  One  saw 
that  she  had  learned  it  before  the  cross.  She 
would  smile  upon  her  bed  like  a  martyr  on  the 
rack.  Her  face  never  lost  its  serenity,  and  even 
in  her  dying  moments  she  seemed  to  be  thinking 
of  a  festival.  This  surprised  me  who  saw  her 
suffer  so  much,  and  myself  cried  at  the  least 
thing,  and  did  not  know  what  resignation  under 
pain  meant.  And  when  they  told  me  that  she 
was  going  to  die,  I  looked  at  her.  and  her  cheer- 
ful aspect  made  me  disbelieve  them.  She  did 
die,  however,  at  midnight  on  the  2nd  of  April, 
while  I  had  fallen  asleep  nt  the  foot  of  her  bed. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  61 

Her  gentle  death  did  not  waken  me  ;  never  did 
any  soul  leave  the  world  more  quietly.  It  was 
my  father.  ...  Oh  God  !  I  hear  the  priest  ;  I 
see  lighted  tapers,  a  pale  face  in  tears  !  I  was 
led  away  into  another  room. 

yd. — At  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  my 
mother  was  laid  in  the  tomb. 

4th.  —  I  am  going  to  Cahuzac  with  the  sun 
straight  above  my  head.  If  this  tires  me  I  shall 
think  of  the  saint  of  the  day,  Saint  Macarius, 
toiling  along  in  the  desert  beneath  a  basket  of 
sand  to  get  rid  of  a  temptation.  He  afflicted 
his  body  in  order  to  save  his  soul. 

8th.  —  I  don't  know  why  I  have  put  down 
nothing  for  four  days  ;  I  return  to  it  now  that 
I  find  myself  alone  in  my  room.  Solitude  leads 
to  writing,  because  it  leads  to  thought.  One 
enters  into  conversation  with  one's  own  soul. 
I  ask  mine  what  it  has  seen  to-day,  what  it  has 
learnt,  what  it  has  loved,  —  for  every  day  it 
loves  something.  This  morning  I  saw  a  beau- 
tiful sky,  and  the  budding  chestnut-tree,  and 
heard  little  birds  singing.  I  was  listening  to 
them  beneath  the  great  oak,  near  Teoul6,  whose 
basin  was  being  cleaned  out.  These  pretty 
songs  and  this  washing  of  the  fountain  sug- 
gested different  trains  of  thought ;  the  birds 
delighted  me,  and  when  I  saw  the  escape   of 


62  journal  of 

the  muddy  water,  so  clear  a  short  time  before, 
I  could  not  but  regret  that  it  had  been  troubled, 
and  pictured  to  myself  one's  soul  when  some- 
thing stirs  it  up  ;  fur  even  the  most  beautiful 
loses  its  charm  when  you  stir  the  bottom,  there 
being  a  little  mud  at  the  bottom  of  every  human 
soul.  But  is  it  worth  while  to  take  ink  out  of 
the  inkstand  to  write  thee  all  these  inutilities  ) 
It  would  be  better  to  speak  of  Jean  Tamisier, 
who,  seated  near  the  porch,  related  to  me  some 
of  his  adventure-,  in  his  rounds.  I  thanked 
him  for  it  by  a  glass  of  wine  which  will  give 
him  a  fresh  flow  of  words,  as  well  as  legs  to 
reach  his  sleeping-place  to-night.  Then  I  read 
a  sermon  ;  not  being  able  to  go  and  hear  one, 
I  make  my  little  room  a  church,  where  methinks 
1  can  find  God,  and  without  any  disturbing 
causes.  When  I  have  prayed  I  reflect,  when  1 
have  meditated  I  read,  then  sometimes  I  write  ; 
and  all  this  goes  on  before  a  little  cross  on  the 
table  as  before  an  altar — below  is  the  drawer 
which   holds  my  letters,  my  relics. 

(jlh. — This  morning  I  meditated  upon  the 
tears  of  the  Magdalen.  What  sweet  tears,  and 
how  beautiful  a  history,  that  of  this  woman 
who  loved  so  much  !  Here  is  Papa  ;  I  leave 
everything. 

13//1. — Since    Papa's   return    I    have  laid   by 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  63 

my  journal,  my  books,  and  many  things.  There 
come  these  days  of  exhaustion,  when  the  soul 
retires  from  all  its  affections,  and  sinks  back 
upon  itself  in  utter  weariness.  This  weariness 
without  fatigue,  what  else  is  it  but  weakness  ? 
We  must  conquer  it,  like  so  many  other  weak- 
nesses that  attack  this  poor  soul  of  ours.  If 
we  did  not  kill  them  one  by  one,  they  would 
end  by  fretting  us  away,  as  worms  do  cloth.  I 
pass  so  suddenly  from  sadness  to  joy  ;  when  I 
say  joy  I  mean  that  sweet,  calm  happiness  of 
the  soul  which  only  shows  externally  as  seren- 
ity. A  letter,  a  thought  of  God  or  of  those  I 
love,  will  have  this  effect  upon  me,  and  yet 
sometimes  too  a  quite  contrary  one.  It  is  when 
I  take  things  ill  that  they  sadden  me.  God 
knows  the  fears  and  the  raptures  He  gives  ; 
you,  my  friends,  do  not  know  how  sweet  and 
bitter  both  you  are  to  me.  Do  you  remember, 
Maurice,  that  little  short  letter  which  tormented 
me  for  a  fortnight  ?  How  cold,  how  indifferent, 
how  little  kind  you  seemed  to  me  I 

I  have  just  been  suspending  the  sacred  branch 
to  my  ''benitier."  Yesterday  was  Palm  Sun- 
day, the  festival  of  children,  who  are  so  happy 
with  these  consecrated  branches,  dressed  up 
with  cakes  in  the  church.  This  joyous  entrance 
of  theirs  is  no  doubt  granted  them  in  memory 


64  Journal  of 

of  the  hosannas  sung  by  children  to  Jesus  in 
the  temple.  God  leaves  nothing  unrewarded. 
Here  is  my  copybook  come  to  an  und  !  Shall 
I  begin  another  r  I  know  not.  Good-bye  to 
this  one  and  to  thee  ! 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  65 


II. 

i^th  April,  1835. 

\X  THY  should  I  not  go  on  writing  to  thee, 
*  "  my  dear  Maurice  ?  This  book  will  please 
thee  as  much  as  the  two  others  ;  I  go  on  there- 
fore. Will  you  not  be  very  glad  to  know  that 
I  have  just  been  spending  a  pleasant  quarter  of 
an  hour  on  the  terrace  steps,  seated  by  the  side 
of  an  old  woman,  who  was  singing  me  a  lament- 
able ballad  on  an  event  that  occurred  long  ago 
at  Cahuzac  ?  This  came  about  &  propos  of  a 
gold  cross  that  has  been  stolen  from  the  neck 
of  the  blessed  Virgin.  The  old  woman  remem- 
bered her  grandmother  telling  her  that  she  had 
heard  in  olden  times  of  this  same  church  being 
the  scene  of  a  still  more  sacrilegious  robbery, 
since  it  was  then  the  blessed  sacrament  that 
was  carried  off  one  day  when  it  was  left  exposed 
in  the  empty  church.  A  young  girl  came  to  the 
altar  while  everybody  was  busy  in  the  harvest, 
and,  mounting  upon  it,  put  the  pyx  into  her 
apron,  and  went  and  placed  it  under  a  rose-tree 
in  a  wood.  The  shepherds  who  discovered  it 
told  where  it  was,  and  nine  priests  came  in  pro- 
vol.  1  —  5 


66  Journal  of 

cession  to  adore  the  blessed  sacrament  under 
the  rose-tree,  and  to  carry  it  back,  to  the  church. 
But  for  all  that,  the  poor  shepherdess  was 
arrested,  tried,  and  condemned  to  be  burned. 
Just  when  about  to  die,  she  requested  to  con- 
fess, and  owned  the  fact  to  a  priest  ;  but  it  was 
not,  she  said,  because  of  any  thievish  propen- 
sities she  took,  it,  but  that  she  wanted  to  have 
the  blessed  sacrament  in  the  forest.  "  I  thought 
that  the  good  God  would  be  as  satisfied  under 
a  rose-tree  as  on  an  altar."  At  these  words  an 
angel  descended  from  heaven  to  announce  her 
pardon,  and  to  comfort  the  pious  criminal,  who 
was  burnt  on  a  stake  of  which  the  rose-tree 
formed  the  first  fagot.  This  is  what  the  beggar- 
woman  said  to  me,  while  I  listened  to  her  as  to 
a  nightingale. 

I  heartily  thanked  her,  and  then  offered  her 
something  as  payment  for  her  ballad  ;  but  she 
would  only  take  flowers.  "  Give  me  a  bit  of 
that  beautiful  lilac."  I  gave  her  four  bunches, 
big  as  plumes,  and  the  poor  old  woman  went 
off,  her  stick  in  one  hand,  her  nosegay  in 
another;  and  I  back  into  the  house  with  her 
ballad. 

1  \th. — On  waking  I  heard  the  nightingale, 
but  only  a  sigh,  a  mere  hint  of  his  voice.  I 
listened  a  long  while,  and  heard  nothing  more. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  6j 

The  charming  musician  had  only  just  arrived, 
and  was  merely  announcing  himself.  It  was 
like  the  first  sweep  of  the  bow  of  a  great  con- 
cert. Everything  sings  or  is  about  to  sing 
now. 

I  have  not  read  the  life  of  the  saint  of  to-day. 
I  am  going  to  do  so  ;  it  is  my  custom  before 
dinner.  I  find  that  while  one  is  eating,  while 
one  is  at  the  manger,  it  is  well  to  have  something 
spiritual  in  one's  mind,  like  the  life  of  a  saint. 

It  is  charming,  this  life  of  Saint  Macedone, 
he  who  by  his  prayers  obtained  the  birth  of 
Theodoret,  and  who  said  to  a  huntsman,  who 
marvelled  to  find  the  Sainton  the  mountain-side, 
"  You  pursue  animals,  and  I,  I  follow  after 
God."  These  words  include  the  whole  life  of 
saints  and  that  of  men  of  the  world. 

We  have  an  additional  guest  in  the  kitchen,  a 
cricket  brought  in  this  evening  amongst  some 
herbs.  There  it  is  established  on  our  hearth, 
where  the  little  creature  will  sing  when  it  is 
merry.   .   .   . 

Holy  Thursday.  —  I  am  come  in,  all  fragrant 
from  the  chapel  of  moss,  where  the  blessed  sacra- 
ment rests.  It  is  a  beautiful  day  this,  when  God 
deigns  to  repose  amidst  the  flowers  and  perfumes 
of  spring.  We  did  our  very  best,  Mimi,  I,  and 
Rose,   the  pew-opener,   to  make   this  resting- 


68  Journal  of 

place,  and  we  had  the  assistance  of  M.  the 
Cure.  I  thought,  while  thus  occupied,  of  the 
guest-chamber,  the  well-furnished  room  where 
Jesus  willed  to  keep  the  passover  with  His  dis- 
ciples, giving  Himself  for  the  lamb.  Oh,  what 
a  gift !  What  can  one  say  of  the  Eucharist  ? 
I  know  not  ;  —  one  adores,  possesses,  lives, 
loves  ;  —  the  speechless  soul  loses  itself  in  an 
abyss  of  joy.  I  thought  of  thee  amidst  these 
ecstasies,  and  would  have  given  much  to  have 
had  thee  by  my  side  at  the  holy  table  as  thou 
wert  three  years  ago. 

Easter  Thursday.  —  Here  are  several  days 
that  I  have  written  neither  to  thee  nor  any  one 
else.  The  services  have  occupied  all  my  time, 
and  I  have  lived,  so  to  speak,  in  the  church. 
Sweet  and  sacred  life,  that  I  regret  to  see  come 
to  an  end  1  but  I  find  it  again  here  whenever  I 
will.  I  open  the  door  of  my  little  room,  and 
there  I  enjoy  calm,  meditative  solitude.  I  know 
not  why  I  ever  leave  it. 

There  is  just  now  on  my  window-sill  a  bird, 
who  has  come  to  visit  mine.  He  is  frightened 
—  he  is  off  —  and  the  poor  caged  one  is  sad- 
dened, and  flutters  as  if  he  wanted  to  make  his 
escape.  I  should  do  the  same  were  I  in  his 
place,  and  yet  I  keep  him  prisoner.  Shall  I 
open   his   cage?      He  would   fly   away,   would 


Eugenie  cie  Guerin.  6y 

sing,  build  his  nest,  be  happy  ;  but  he  would  be 
mine  no  longer,  and  I  am  fond  of  him  and  like 
having  him.  I  shall  keep  him.  Poor  little  lin- 
net, thou  wilt  always  be  a  prisoner ;  I  enjoy 
thee  at  the  cost  of  thy  liberty  ;  I  pity,  and  yet 
detain  thee  !  So  it  is  that  pleasure  triumphs 
over  justice.  But  what  would'st  thou  do,  if  I 
gave  thee  thy  liberty  ?  Dost  know  that  thy 
wings,  which  have  never  been  spread,  could  not 
carry  thee  far  into  that  wide  expanse  thou  seest 
through  the  wires  of  thy  cage  ?  Then  thy  food 
—  thou  would'st  not  know  where  to  find  it. 
Thou  hast  never  tasted  what  thy  brothers  eat, 
and,  indeed,  they  would  probably  banish  thee 
like  a  stranger  from  their  family  feast.  Better 
stay  with  me,  who  care  for  thee.  By  night  the 
dew  would  wet  thy  feathers,  and  the  cold  of 
early  morning  would  prevent  thee  from  singing. 

In  digging  the  field  a  stone  has  been  turned 
up  which  covered  a  large  hole  ;  I  am  going  to 
see  it.  Jack,  furnished  with  a  rope,  has  been 
down  into  the  cave  and  explored  it  on  all  sides. 
It  is  nothing  but  an  excavation,  incrusted  with 
pretty  little  stones,  rough,  like  sugared  almonds  ; 
I  kept  some  as  a  memento  of  our  discovery. 
Some  day  I  will  go  down  into  the  grotto,  and 
perhaps  I  shall  see  something  more  there  than 
Jack  did. 


;o  Journal  of 

24th.  —  All  yesterday  I  was  expecting  the 
postman,  hoping  for  letters  from  thee.  They 
w  ill  come  to-morrow,  no  doubt.  This  is  how  I 
comfort  myself  at  every  mail,  this  last  fortnight 
that  I  have  been  kept  in  suspense.  It  is  a  very 
long  time,  and  I  begin  to  be  uneasy  at  your 
silence.  Can  you  be  ill  ?  This  idea  occurs  to 
me  a  hundred  times  a  day,  and  at  night  when 
I  awake.  "  Get  away  !  "  I  tell  it  ;  "  I  do  not 
believe  thee."  But  vet  it  is  possible.  The  son 
of  M.  de  Fenelons  has  too  surely  just  died  in 
Paris.  My  God  !  how  sad  to  die  far  from  one's 
own  people,  far  from  one's  home  1  To-morrow 
I  write  to  thee. 

And  now  let  us  speak  of  other  things.  From 
M.  Hippolyte's  letter  Papa  hopes  that  we  may 
see  him  here.  It  would  be  a  great  happiness  to 
us  to  have  him,  and  to  pay  him  some  small  pari 
of  what  we  owe  him  for  his  friendship  to  thee. 
Who  can  tell  what  he  might  think  of  Cayla,  our 
climate,  and  ourselves  ?  People  often  form  ideas 
about  the  unknown,  of  which  reality  destroys 
the  charm.  Besides.  I  should  not  like  him  to 
come  without  thee.  What  would  Cayla  be  to 
him  without  Maurice  ? —  a  desert  in  which  he 
would  soon  weary  of  being  alone.  If  he  brought 
me  his  daughter,  as  he  once  spoke  of  doing, 
then   he  would  feel   very   differently  ;  his  little 


Eugenie  Je  Guerin.  71 

girl  would  give  a  charm  to  everything,  and  Cayla 
might  appear  Le  Val.  I,  too,  should  be  very 
glad  to  see  that  child,  to  hold  her  on  my  knees, 
to  caress  and  embrace  her,  to  have  her  in  my 
keeping  for  a  few  days.  I  could  never  say  how 
much  that  little  creature  interests  me,  attaches 
me,  no  doubt,  through  her  mother's  memory  ; 
and  then  the  poor  child  is  made  so  interesting 
by  her  bereavement !  Alas  !  it  is  so  sad  to  have 
no  mother,  and  especially  at  her  age  —  at  two 
years  old.  Young  as  she  is,  she  already  feels  her 
loss,  and  will  feel  it  more  every  day.  The  heart 
learns  to  sorrow  as  it-  learns  to  love.  As  she 
grows  up,  Marie  will  go  on  loving  her  mother 
more  and  mourning  her  more.  Her  future  occu- 
pies me  a  good  deal  :  I  should  like  to  know 
whether  she  will  live,  or  whether  God  will  recall 
her  to  Himself  before  she  becomes  acquainted 
with  evil.  This  would  be  a  sad  thing  for  her 
father ;  but  for  her,  oh,  certainly  not !  Can 
one  regret  that  a  soul  should  go  to  heaven  in  all 
its  innocence  ?  What  a  beautiful  death  a  child's 
is,  and  how  one  blesses  those  little  coffins  that 
the  Church  accompanies  with  gladness  to  the 
grave  !  I  love  them  ;  I  contemplate  them  ;  I 
approach  them  as  I  do  a  cradle  ;  only  I  pity  the 
mothers,  I  pray  God  to  console  them,  and  God 
does  console  them  if  they  be  Christians. 


72  Journal  of 

I  have  only  written  here  to-day.  I  do  not 
know  why  it  has  become  thus  necessary  for  me 
to  write,  were  it  but  two  words.  Writing  is 
my  sign  of  life,  as  flowing  is  that  of  the  fountain. 
I  would  not  say  it  to  others,  it  would  appear 
such  folly.  Who  knows  what  it  is,  this  effusion 
of  my  soul  —  this  want  of  pouring  itself  out 
before  God  and  before  some  fellow-creature  ?  I 
say  some  fellow-creature  ;  for  it  seems  to  me 
that  thou  art  there,  that  this  page  is  thee,  and 
God,  it  seems  to  me,  does  listen  to  me,  nay, 
answers  me  in  a  way  that  the  soul  hears,  and 
that  cannot  be  communicated.  When  I  am 
alone,  seated  here  or  kneeling  before  my  cru- 
cifix, I  fancy  myself  Mary,  quietly  listening  to 
the  Saviour's  words.  During  the  deep  silence, 
when  God  alone  speaks  to  it.  my  soul  is  happy, 
and,  as  it  were,  dead  to  all  that  is  going  on 
below  or  above,  within,  without  ;  but  this  does 
not  last  long.  "  Come,  my  poor  soul,"  I  say, 
"  return  to  the  things  of  this  world  !  "  and  1  take 
up  my  distaff,  or  a  book,  or  a  saucepan,  or  else 
I  caress  Wolf  or  Trilby.  There  you  have  the 
life  of  heaven  on  earth.  Just  now  I  was  milk- 
ing one  of  our  ewes.  Oh,  what  good  milk  ; 
and  how  much  I  should  like  to  have  made  thee 
taste  it,  this  good  ewe  milk  of  Cayla  !  My 
friend,  how  many  enjoyments  thou  losest  by  not 
being  here  ! 


Eugenie  de  Giierin.  73 

Eight  o'clock.  I  must  briefly  note  an  excel- 
lent supper  that  Papa,  Mimi,  and  I  have  just 
made,  by  the  kitchen  fire,  upon  the  servant's 
soup,  boiled  potatoes,  and  a  cake  that  I  baked 
yesterday  in  the  oven  with  the  bread.  We  had 
no  one  to  wait  on  us  but  our  dogs,  Lion,  Wolf, 
and  Trilby,  who,  as  it  behoved  them,  licked  up 
the  crumbs.  All  our  people  are  at  church,  at 
the  catechising  which  goes  on  every  evening 
preparatory  to  the  confirmation.  This  meal  in 
the  chimney  corner,  surrounded  by  dogs  and 
cats  —  this  tray,  put  on  the  logs  of  wood,  was 
charming.  Nothing  was  wanted  to  make  it  per- 
fect but  the  cricket's  chirp  and  thee.  Have  I 
not  chattered  enough  to-day  ?  and  now  I  am 
going  to  listen  to  the  "  Vialarette,''  who  is  come 
back  from  Cordes.     Another  pleasure  ! 

ijth.  —  Here  I  am!  before  me  a  charming 
nosegay  of  lilacs  that  I  have  just  been  gathering 
on  the  terrace.  My  little  room  is  made  balmy 
by  it.  I  sit  here  as  if  in  a  flower-pot.  so  much 
perfume  do  I  inhale. 

26th.  —  I  don't  know  what  took  me  away 
from  the  flowers  yesterday  ;  since  then  I  have 
seen  others  in  the  Cahuzac  road,  which  is  entirely 
bordered  with  hawthorn.  It  is  a  pleasure  to 
trot  along  midst  all  this  fragrance,  and  to  hear  the 
little  birds  singing  here  and  there  in  the  hedges. 


74  journal  of 

Nothing  is  so  delightful  as  these  morning  walks 
in  spring,  and  I  do  not  grudge  rising  early  to 
insure  myself  this  delight.  Soon  I  shall  be 
getting  up  at  five  o'clock.  I  regulate  my  hours 
by  the  sun,  and  we  rise  together.  In  winter  he 
is  idle,  and  so  am  I,  and  I  only  leave  my  bed 
about  seven  ;  and  even  then  the  day  seems  long 
sometimes,  when  the  sky  is  cloudy,  or  when  I 
am  sad  and  waiting  for  a  little  sunshine,  or  some 
brightness  in  my  own  soul.  Then  the  time  is 
long.  My  God  !  to  think  of  finding  one  day 
long,  when  the  whole  of  life  is  nothing  !  The 
truth  is  that  ennui  has  got  hold  of  me,  that  it 
keeps  possession  of  me,  and  that  all  that  lasts 
long  brings  something  of  eternity  into  time. 
Oh.  how  I  pity  a  soul  in  purgatory,  where 
waiting  causes  such  suffering  ;  and  then  what  a 
waiting  !  Can  we  put  in  comparison  with  it  any 
of  our  expectations  here  below,  whether  of  for- 
tune, glory,  or  whatever  else  makes  the  human 
heart  pant  }  One  alone  may  perhaps  be  a  shadow 
of  it :  love  waiting  for  what  it  loves.  Accord- 
ingly, Fenelon  compares  heavenly  felicity  to 
that  of  a  mother  at  the  moment  when  she  once 
more  sees  the  son  she  had  believed  dead. 
Twelve  o'clock  strikes:  the  time  for  writing 
is  over. 

Whenever   I   see  passing  by  the  cross  a  man 


Eugenie  tie  Giteriu.  7$ 

who  crosses  himself  or  takes  off  his  hat,  I  say 
to  myself,  "There  goes  a  Christian  !  "  and  I 
feel  a  reverence  for  him,  and  do  not  bolt  the 
doors  if  I  chance  to  be  alone  in  the  house  ; 
on  the  contrary,  I  stand  at  the  window  and 
watch  that  good  Christian  figure  as  long  as  I 
can,  as  I  have  just  now  been  doing.  One  has 
nothiner  to  fear  from  those  who  fear  God.  I 
would  willingly  have  opened  my  door  to  the 
stranger  I  saw  bowing  before  the  cross.  May 
God  be  with  him,  wherever  he  goes  1  I,  too, 
am  just  running  off,  but  not  very  far  —  only  to 
the  church  for  vespers.  It  is  Sunday,  —  a  day 
of  expeditions  for  the  body  and  seclusion  for 
the  soul,  which  therefore  retires  within  itself 
and  leaves  thee.  Another  post-day,  and  I  have 
no  letter.  What  canst  thou  be  thinking  of,  my 
friend  ? 

2~th.  —  I  met  the  little  hero  of  the  jug. 
The  poor  child  has  lost  his  father  ;  his  mother, 
too,  is  dead  ;  and  ever  since  the  orphan  has  a 
touching  habit.  He  takes  a  handkerchief  into 
bed,  places  it  beside  him  in  the  place  that  was 
his  mother's,  and  falls  asleep  sucking  it.  A 
gentle  illusion  this,  that  consoles  him,  and  at- 
taches him  so  much  to  his  bit  of  handkerchief, 
that  if  he  wakes  without  it  between  his  lips 
he  screams  and  cries.      Then  he   calls  for  his 


j6  Journal  of 

mother,  tells  her  to  return,  and  can  only  com- 
pose himself  with  his  doll.  Innocent  want,  this 
of  the  doll,  most  worthy  of  a  child's  spirit,  and 
even  of  the  grown  man  ;  for  every  mourner 
has  his  too,  and  solaces  himself  with  the  least 
image  of  his  lost  happiness. 

28M.  —  When  everybody  is  busy,  and  I  am 
not  wanted,  I  go  into  retreat,  and  come  here  at 
all  hours  to  write,  read,  or  pray.  I  note  down 
here,  too,  what  goes  on,  either  in  my  mind  or 
in  the  house  ;  and  in  this  way  we  shall  be  able 
to  find  again  day  by  day  the  whole  past.  For 
me  what  passes  is  of  little  worth,  and  I  should 
not  write  it  down,  but  that  I  say,  "  Maurice 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  what  we  were  doing 
while  he  was  away,  and  to  re-enter  thus  into 
the  family  life  ;  "  and  so   I   note  it  for  thee. 

But  I  observe  that  I  hardly  make  any  men- 
tion of  others,  and  that  my  egotism  always 
occupies  the  stage.  I  keep  saying,  "  I  do  this ; 
I  have  seen  that,  have  thought  so  and  so  ; 
leaving  the  public  in  the  background,  after  the 
manner  of  self-love  ;  but  mine  is  that  of  the 
heart,  which  knows  only  how  to  speak  of  itself. 
The  inferior  painter  can  but  give  his  own  por- 
trait to  his  friend  ;  the  great  painter  has  pictures 
to  offer.  So  I  go  on  with  the  portrait.  But  for 
the  rain  we  had  this  morning.  I   should  be  now 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  yj 

at  Gaillac.  Much  obliged  to  the  rain  ;  I  would 
rather  be  here.  What  drawing-room  can  be  so 
pleasant  as  my  bed-room  ?  what  companionship 
should  I  have  had  equal  to  what  surrounds  me 
now  }  Bossuet,  Saint  Augustine,  and  other  holy 
books,  that  speak  to  me  when  I  will,  enlighten, 
console,  strengthen  me,  correspond  to  all  my 
needs.  To  leave  them  grieves  me ;  to  take 
them  with  me  is  difficult  :  the  best  plan  is  not 
to  leave  them. 

In  my  leisure  moments  I  am  reading  a  work 
of  Leibnitz,  which  charms  me  by  its  catholicity 
and  the  admirable  pious  passages  it  contains,  as, 
for  instance,  this  on  confession  :  "  I  look  upon 
a  pious,  earnest,  and  discreet  confessor  as  a 
great  instrument  in  the  hands  of  God  for  the 
salvation  of  souls  ;  for  his  counsels  serve  to 
direct  our  affections,  to  enlighten  us  as  to  our 
faults,  to  help  us  to  avoid  occasions  of  sin,  to 
dissipate  doubts,  to  raise  the  downcast  spirit  ; 
in  short,  to  remove  or  mitigate  all  diseases  of 
the  soul ;  and  if  we  can  hardly  find  anything 
on  earth  more  excellent  than  a  faithful  friend, 
what  happiness  to  find  one  who  shall  be  bound 
by  the  inviolable  religion  of  a  divine  sacra- 
ment to  preserve  the  faith  and  to  succour 
souls  1  " 

Now   this   heavenly  friend    I    have    in    M. 


78  Journal  of 

Bories  :  hence  the  tidings  of  his  departure  pro- 
foundly alllict  me.  1  am  sad  with  a  sadness 
which  makes  the  soul  weep.  I  should  not  say 
this  elsewhere  :  it  would  be  taken  ill,  and,  per- 
haps, would  not  be  understood.  The  world 
does  not  know  what  a  confessor  is  to  one  :  the 
man  who  is  the  friend  of  the  soul,  its  most  inti- 
mate confidant,  its  physician,  its  master,  its 
li^ht  ;  he  who  binds  us  and  looses,  who  gives 
us  peace,  who  opens  the  gates  of  heaven  ;  to 
whom  we  speak  upon  our  knees,  calling  him,  as 
we  do  God,  our  Father  ;  nay,  faith  makes  him 
in  very  deed  God  and  Father  to  us.  When  1 
am  at  his  feet,  I  see  in  him  only  Jesus  listening 
to  the  Magdalen,  and  forgiving  her  much  be- 
cause she  has  loved  much.  Confession  is  but 
the  expansion  of  repentance  into  love.1 

5//1  May  (at  Gaillac).  —  Nothing  was  spoken 
of  yesterday  evening  but  the  death  of  a  young 
girl  just  as  she  was  coming  away  from  a  ball, 
where  she   had   spent  the  night.     Poor  young 

1  The  reader  will  find  the  preceding  passage  literally 
repeated  in  the  next  book;  we  have  not  felt  authorized 
to  suppress  the  repetition;  it  only  proves  the  special 
importance  Mademoiselle  de  Guerin  attached  to  these 
ideas,  and  possibly  the  secret  satisfaction  that  she  may 
have  unconsciously  felt  in  expressing  them  in  so  concise 
and  emphatic  a  manner. 


Eugenie  de  G  iter  in.  79 

girl's  soul  !  where  art  thou  ?  I  have  too  many 
occupations  to  listen  to  my  own  thoughts.  Let 
them  retire. 

c)th.  —  And  I  too  have  just  returned  from  a 
dance,  being  the  first  I  have  seen  and  shared 
in  ;  but  my  heart  was  not  in  cue,  and  yearned 
for  rest  ;  and  besides,  I  danced  ill,  both  from 
want  of  taste  and  habit.  I  heard  myself  laughed 
at,  and  this  did  not  amuse  me  ;  but  I  amused 
the  laughers,  which  was  one  way  of  lending 
one's  self  to  the  promotion  of  pleasure.  I  did 
so  with  hearty  good  will  ;  but  this  complaisance 
would  soon  weary  me,  as  everything  belonging 
to  the  world  does,  since  I  always  feel  myself  a 
stranger  there.  Seated  on  a  sofa,  I  keep  think- 
ing of  the  greensward,  or  the  chestnut-tree,  or 
the  rabbit-warren,  where  one  is  so  much  better 
off. 

Oh,  leave  to  me  my  reveries, 

My  own  pure  sky,  my  valleys  fair, 

My  streamlets  running  where  they  please, 

My  flowery  hills,  my  forest  trees, 
My  blue-waved  river  flowing  there. 

And  let  my  life,  that  stream  beside, 

Like  it  pursue  its  onward  way, 
Far  from  the  loud  world's  pomp  and  pride, 
Not  deep,  but  ever  clear  its  tide, 

And  careless  of  the  future  day. 


8o  Journal  of 

Thus  let  it  glide  on,  sweet  and  slow, 

Bordered  with  flowers,  the  hills  between, 
Playing  with  moss  shreds  in  its  flow, 
With  grasses  waving  to  and  fro, 
With  willow  branches  dropping  in. 

My  hours,  rocked  by  each  wind  that  blows. 

Linked  hand  in  hand,  steal  soft  away  ; 
In  their  light  track  my  thoughts  unclose, 
As  fast  and  fresh  as  grass  that  grows 
Beside  the  trodden  public  way. 

They  say  that  life  is  hard  to  bear. 

Mv  God  !    it  is  not  so  to  me  ; 
Two  angels  —  Poetry  and  Prayer  — 
Like  sister's  love,  like  mother's  care, 

Cradle  and  keep  it  pure  for  thee. 

Childlike,  it  still  pursues  a  dream, 

A  hope,  a  wish,  a  memory, 
Like  butterfly  beside  a  stream  ; 
And  in  each  morning's  sunny  gleam 

It  sees  its  whole  futurity. 

Drop  upon  drop,  but  honey-sweet, 

Thus  to  its  share  the  days  are  given ; 
There  is  not  one  it  fears  to  meet, — 
Oh  God  !  thus  doubtless  at  thy  feet 
The  angels  live  in  heaven. 

And  when  this  happy  life  is  run, 

Death  must  draw  very  gently  nigh  ; 
Like  flowers  half-faded  by  the  sun 
When  the  long  summer  day  is  done, 
We  only  bend  our  heads  and  die. 


Eugenic  de  Guerin.  81 

And  if  but  Faith  and  Hope  be  there, 

Why,  what  is  death  ?     To  close  our  eyes, 

To  concentrate  ourselves  in  prayer, 

To  yield  our  soul  to  angels'  care, 
And  sleep,  to  waken  in  the  skies. 

Justin  Maurice. 

This  is  the  prettiest  thing  and  the  most  to  my 
taste  that  I  have  found  since  1  have  been  here  ; 
accordingly,  I  take  possession  of  it.  If  it  be 
fine,  I  shall  leave  this  evening.  Enchanting 
idea  !  I  shall  see  Papa,  Mimi.  What  a  sweet 
thing  a  return  home  is  I 

[No  date.]  —  Here  I  am  at  this  dear  Cayla, 
and  have  been  several  days  without  telling  thee. 
The  fact  is,  in  taking  my  copybook  out  of  my 
portmanteau  I  placed  it  under  a  carpet,  and  there 
it  has  lain  ever  since.  In  rummaging  about,  my 
hand  fell  upon  it,  the  book  opened,  and  I  con- 
tinue the  writing.  It  was  a  sweet  moment 
when  I  saw  my  family  again, —  Papa,  Mimi, 
Erembert,  — who  all  embraced  me  so  tenderly, 
and  made  me  feel  how  deep  the  happiness  of 
being  loved. 

Yesterday  was  a  fortunate  day  ;  four  letters 
and    two   friends    arrived,   M.   Bories   and    the 

Abbe  F ,  the  brother  of  C6cile.     I  do  not 

know  which  of  the  two  gave  us  most  pleasure 
or  was  most  agreeable,  the  one  by  his  mind, 
VOL.  i.  — 6 


82  Journal  of 

the  other  by  his  heart.  We  had  a  great  deal 
of  chat  ;  we  laughed,  drank  healths,  and,  as  a 
wind-up,  set  to  playing  childish  games,  and 
cheating  each  other.  No  solemnity  at  all  ;  it 
was  a  day  of  relaxation,  when  the  soul  takes  its 
ease  while  retaining  its  bent  ;  it  was  the  mirth- 
fulness  of  priests  and  Christian  friends. 

As  we  were  at  dessert,  two  letters  were 
brought  in,  the  one  from  Lili,  the  other  from 
that  poor  Philibert,1  who  is  more  and  more 
unhappy.  This  letter  is  heartbreaking.  I  read 
it  out  at  table,  and  saw  tears  in  the  eyes  of  our 
good  priests.  M.  Bories  recalled  that  on  the 
morning  of  his  departure  Philibert  ran  to  his 
bedside,  and  said,  "  I  am  off,  Monsieur  le  Cure  ; 
perhaps  I  am  leaving  my  country  for  ever :  say 
mass  to-day,  I  beg  you,  to  my  intention."  He 
did  say  it,  I  remember,  and  we  attended  it.  my 
aunt  and  I  weeping  as  much  as  we  prayed. 
This  good  cousin  says  charmingly  kind  thil 
to  me,  things  that  go  to  the  heart,  and  may  not 
pass  the  lipv  I  suppressed  them  in  reading  the 
letter.  He  speaks  of  my  poetry  written  to  my 
poor  friend  of  Le  Val,  and  sent  to  him  by  Papa. 
Thus,  then,  this  memorial  has  crossed  the  seas, 
and  they  know  at  the  other  end  of  the  world 
that  I  loved  you.  my  poor  Mane,  but  they  do 
1  M.  Philibert  de  Roquefeuil. 


Eugenie  de  Gicerin.  83 

not  know  that  I  mourn  you  now,  and  that  you 
have  been  so  early  taken  from  us  !  But  they 
will  know  that,  too  ;  for  I  have  written  about 
this  death  to  our  friends  in  the  Isle  of  France, 
and  I  shali  feel  that  you  are  regretted  by  hearts 
most  worthy  to  offer  you  their  regrets. 

Philibert  is  sending  us  two  fans,  and  some 
seeds  of  marine  plants,  gathered  by  him  and  his 
wife  in  the  Bay  du  Tombeau.  What  a  hurry  I 
am  in  to  have  them,  to  see  them, — see  them 
sprout,  grow,  blossom  !  They  come  in  return 
for  a  rose-leaf  that  I  sent  him  last  spring.  I 
was  holding  the  rose  in  my  hand,  a  petal  fell  on 
the  letter,  and  I  folded  it  up  in  it,  and  let  it  go, 
saying  to  myself  that  it  had  thus  detached  itself 
in  order  to  take  to  that  poor  exile  some  of  the 
perfume  of  his  own  country  ;  and,  in  truth,  it 
did  give  him   very  great  delight. 

18th. —  Who  could  ever  have  guessed  what 
has  happened  to  me  to-day  ?  I  am  surprised, 
engrossed,  and  much  pleased  by  it.  I  think  and 
contemplate  my  present  constantly,  — my  Creole 
poems,  addressed  to  me  by  a  poet  of  the  Isle 
of  France.  I  shall  speak  of  them  to-morrow, 
it  is  now  too  late  ;  but  I  could  not  sleep  with- 
out noting  down  here  this  event  of  my  day  and 
my  life. 

19//2.  —  Here  I   am  at  the  window,  listening 


84  Journal  of 

to  a  chorus  of  nightingales,  which  sing  in  the 
Moulinasse  in  a  ravishing  way.  Oh.  the  beau- 
tiful picture,  the  beautiful  concert,  which  I  have 
to  quit,  to  go  and  take  some  relief  to  poor  lame 
Annette  ! 

22nd.  —  Mimi    has  left  me  for  a   fortnight  ; 

she  is  at ,  and   I   pity  her  in  the  midst  of 

that  paganism  ;  she  so  holy  and  good  a  Chris- 
tian !  As  Louise  once  said  to  me.  she  makes 
upon  one  the  effect  of  a  righteous  soul  in  hell ; 
but  we  shall  get  her  away  as  soon  as  the  time 
allowed  to  the  proprieties  is  over.  I,  on  my 
part,  think  it  long  ;  I  get  tired  of  my  solitude. 
so  much  have  I  the  habit  of  being  two  together. 
Papa  is  in  the  fields  almost  all  the  day,  Eran 
out  shooting  ;  for  sole  society  I  have  Trilby 
and  my  chickens,  which  are  as  noisy  as  imps, 
and  occupy  without  amusing  me,  for  ennui  is  at 
the  very  core  and  basis  of  my  soul  to-day. 
What  I  like  best  has  little  power  to  divert  me. 
I  have  tried  to  read,  write,  pray,  but  each  and 
all  only  lasted  a  moment  ;  even  prayer  weaned 
me.  'T  is  sad,  oh  my  God  !  Fortunately  I 
recalled  those  words  of  Fenelon  :  "If  God 
wearies  you,  tell  Him  that  He  wearies  you.'" 
Oh.  indeed.  I   did  tell    Him  this  folly! 

2;rJ.  —  I  have  just  spent  the  night  in  writing 
to  thee.     The  day  replaced  the  candle  ;  it  was 


Eugenie  de  Gueriii.  85 

not   worth    while   to  go   to  bed.     Oh,  if  Papa 
knew  it ! 

24th.  —  How  swiftly  it  passed,  my  friend, 
that  night  spent  in  writing  to  thee  !  The  dawn 
appeared  when  I  thought  it  was  about  midnight : 
it  was  three  o'clock,  though,  and  I  had  seen 
many  a  star  pass  ;  for  from  my  window  I  can  see 
the  sky,  and  from  time  to  time  1  look  up  to  and 
consult  it,  and  feel  as  though  an  angel  were 
dictating  to  me.  Whence,  in  fact,  but  from 
above,  can  come  so  many  tender,  exalted,  sweet, 
true,  pure  things  with  which  my  heart  fills  when 
I  speak  to  thee  !  Yes,  it  is  God  who  gives 
them  to  me,  and  I  send  them  to  thee.  May  my 
letter  do  thee  good  !  Thou  wilt  get  it  on  Tues- 
day. I  wrote  it  by  night,  in  order  to  have  it 
despatched  by  the  morning  mail,  and  thus  save 
a  day.  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  come  directly 
and  strengthen  thee  in  the  state  of  weakness 
and  weariness  I  see  thee  in.  But  I  do  not  see 
it ;  I  guess  it  from  thy  letter,  and  from  a  few 
words  of  Felicite's.  Would  to  God  I  could  see 
it,  could  discover  what  disturbs  thee  ;  then  I 
should  know  on  what  to  lay  the  balm  that  I  now 
apply  by  hazard  !  Oh,  how  I  long  for  thy  let- 
ters !  Write  to  me,  speak,  explain  thyself;  let 
me  see  thee  ;  let  me  know  what  it  is  thou  art 
suffering,  and  what  makes  thee  suffer.     Some- 


S6  Journal  of 

times  I  think  that  it  is  nothing  but  a  little  of 
that  dark  mood  that  we  have  at  times,  and  which 
makes  us  so  sad  when  it  pervades  our  hearts. 
One  must  get  rid  of  it  as  soon  as  possible,  for 
it  is  a  poison  that  spreads  rapidly,  and  would 
make  us  mad  or  brutal.  It  prevents  our  desir- 
ing anything  noble  or  elevated.  I  know  some 
one  who  in  this  condition  cares  for  no  other 
pleasure  than  eating  ;  and  in  general  this  person's 
soul  is  very  independent  of  the  senses.  This 
shows  how  every  passion  degrades  us  ;  and  de- 
fection is  a  passion  that  consumes,  alas  !  many 
lives.  I  look  upon  those  whom  it  possesses  as 
pretty  nearly  lost.  Has  some  duty  to  be  ful- 
filled r  Oh,  impossible  !  They  are  melancholy 
men  ;  ask  from  them  nothing,  whether  for  God 
or  for  themselves,  except  what  their  mood  may 
allow. 

2~ih.  —  In  my  solitude  to-day  I  have  nothing 
better  to  do  than  to  hunt  among  my  papers,  to 
look  over  my  old  memoranda,  my  writings,  my 
former  thoughts  of  various  kinds.  I  saw  some 
that  were  good,  — that  is.  rational  ;  some  pious, 
some  exaggerated,  absurd,  like  this  :  "If  I 
dared.  I  should  ask  God  why  I  am  in  this  world  r 
What  do  I  in  it  ;  what  have  I  to  do  }  I  know 
not.  My  days  pass  uselessly  by  ;  hence  I  do 
not  regret  them.   ...1(1  could  but  do  myself 


Eugenie  de  GtteHn.  87 

or  any  one  else  good  for  one  moment  only  in 
the  course  of  the  day  !  "  Why,  good  heavens  ! 
nothing  was  easier  ;  I  had  only  to  take  a  glass 
of  water,  and  give  it  to  a  poor  man  !  This  is 
how  depression  leads  us  into  extravagance  ; 
makes  us  say  :  Wherefore  life,  since  life  wearies 
me  ?  Wherefore  duties,  since  they  weigh  upon 
me  ?  Wherefore  a  heart,  a  soul  ?  Wherefores 
without  end,  and  we  can  do  nothing,  will  nothing ! 
We  neglect  ourselves,  weep,  are  wretched,  shut 
ourselves  up  ;  and  the  devil,  who  sees  us  thus 
alone,  comes  to  divert  us  with  all  his  seductions. 
Then,  when  these  are  exhausted,  suicide  still 
remains.  Heavens  1  what  an  end,  what  mad- 
ness, and  how  it  gains  ground  every  day,  even 
in  the  country  !  A  young  peasant  of  Bleys,  well 
off,  and  loved  by  his  parents,  killed  himself  out 
of  melancholy.  Everything  wearied  him,  life 
above  all.  He  was  religious,  but  not  enough  so 
to  conquer  a  passion.  God  alone  can  give  us 
strength  and  resolution  in  this  terrible  conflict, 
and,  however  weak  and  small  we  be,  with  His 
aid  one  can  at  length  hold  the  giant  down  beneath 
one's  knees.  But  for  that  we  must  pray  ;  pray 
much,  as  Jesus  Christ  has  taught  us  to  do,  cry- 
ing, "Our  Father !  "  This  filial  cry  touches 
the  heart  of  God,  and  always  obtains  us  some 
blessing.     My  friend,  I  long  to  see  thee  pray 


88  Journal  of 

like  a  good  child  of  God's.  What  would  it  cost 
thee  }  Thy  spirit  is  naturally  loving,  and  what 
is  prayer  but  love  ?  a  love  that  gushes  out  from 
the  soul,  as  water  from  the  fountain.  You 
understand  this  better  than  I.  M.  de  Lamennais 
has  said  divers  things  on  this  subject,  which  must 
assuredly  have  penetrated  thy  heart  if  thou  hast 
heard  them  ;  but,  unfortunately,  he  has  also 
said  other  things  which  will,  I  fear,  have  pre- 
vented the  good  effects  of  the  former.  What  a 
misfortune,  once  more  ;  what  a  misfortune  that 
thou  should'st  be  under  the  influence  of  this 
misguided  genius  1  Poor  Maurice  1  One  must 
not  think  of  this. 

2-//j.  —  I  made  a  mistake  in  the  date  yester- 
day, and  anticipated  one  day.  I  correct  myself; 
let  us  not  go  quicker  than  time  itself,  which 
advances,  alas  !  rapidly  enough.  Are  we  not 
already  at  the  end  of  the  month,  which  finishes 
in  a  fine  commotion  ?  At  the  moment  I  write, 
we  have  thunder,  wind,  lightning,  the  castle 
shaking,  torrents  of  rain  like  a  deluge.  I  listen 
to  all  this  from  my  inundated  window,  and  I  can- 
not write  on  the  sill,  as  I  do  every  evening.  It 
is  a  great  pity,  for  it  makes  a  charming  desk, 
overlooking  this  garden  mound,  so  green,  so 
pretty,  so  fresh,  all  perfumed  with  its  acacias. 

28//i.  —  Our  sky  to-day  is  pale  and  languish- 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  89 

ing,  like  a  beautiful  face  after  a  fever.  This 
languid  state  has  many  charms,  and  the  blending 
of  verdure  and  dtbris,  of  flowers  that  open  above 
fallen  flowers,  of  singing  birds,  and  little  tor- 
rents flowing,  this  stormy  aspect,  and  this  look 
of  May,  make  up  altogether  a  something  un- 
formal,  sad  and  smiling  both,  that  I  like.  But 
this  is  Ascension-day;  let  us  leave  earth,  and 
the  earth's  sky  ;  let  us  rise  higher  than  our 
own  abode,  and  follow  Jesus  Christ  whither  He 
has  entered  in.  This  is  a  very  beautiful  fes- 
tival,—the  festival  of  detached,  free,  heavenly 
souls,  which  delight  themselves  beyond  the  visi- 
ble, there,  whither  they  are  attracted  by  God. 

29//1.  —  Never  was  there  a  longer  storm  ;  it 
still  lasts.  For  three  days  the  thunder  and  rain 
have  been  going  on  incessantly.  All  the  trees 
are  bent  beneath  this  deluge  ;  it  is  sad  to  see 
them  thus  languishing  and  oppressed  in  the  glo- 
rious triumph  of  their  May.  We  were  saying 
so  this  evening  at  the  hall  window,  as  we 
watched  the  poplars  of  the  Pontet  drooping 
their  heads  quite  mournfully,  like  some  one 
bending  beneath  adversity.  I  pitied  them,  or 
very  nearly  so  ;  whatever  appears  to  suffer 
seems  as  if  it  had  a  soul. 

30//L  —  Rain,  always  rain.  It  is  weather  for 
composing  music  or  poetry.     Every  one  yawns 


90  Journal  of 

as  they  count  the  hours  that  never  come  to  an 
end.  It  is  an  eternity  for  Papa  especially,  he 
who  is  so  fond  of  out-of-door  life  and  its  amuse- 
ments. There  he  is,  as  it  were,  in  prison,  turn- 
ing over  from  time  to  time  an  old  history  of  the 
Berlin  Academy,  a  very  opiate,  most  drowsy 
reading,  which  made  me  run  away  the  moment 
I  touched  the  volume.  Only  think.  !  I  stumbled 
upon  the  '  Theology  of  Being.'  I  shut  it  up 
at  once.  I  fancied  I  was  looking  down  a  well, 
a  well  without  water  ;  a  darksome  void  has 
always  frightened  me.  There  are,  however, 
some  profundities  that  I  delight  in  ;  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  '  Existence  of  God,'  by  Fenelon. 
The  impression  that  book  left  on  me  is  still  as 
it  were  present  ;  it  afforded  me  infinite  enjoy- 
ment, which  could  not  have  been  the  case  if  I 
had  not  in  some  measure  understood  it.  To  feel, 
we  must  be  touched.  I  felt  therefore  ...  I 
am  reasoning  in  Salabert  fashion,  am  I  not  } 
But.  be  it  as  it  may,  that  reading  was  good  for 
me  ;  I  seemed  to  know  more  of  God,  both  by 
the  mind  and  the  heart,  in  the  same  way  Fenelon 
did.  I  should  like  to  have  his  religious  works, 
those  'Spiritual  Letters'  especially,  in  which 
Fenelon  is  so  elevated,  so  tender,  so  loving. 
I  have  those  of  Bossuet.  which  are  my  delight ; 
the  others  are   my   desire.      Since   I   have  got 


Eugenie  de  Guen'ii.  91 

upon  this  subject  I  will  just  tell  thee  all  my 
fancies  as  regards  works  of  piety.  I  have  been 
for  a  long  time  back  forming  a  library,  the 
shelves  of  which,  alas!  are  still  empty.  Here 
it  is  :  first,  of  Saint  Augustine's  works,  the  '  City 
of  God,'  his  meditations,  sermons,  soliloquies, 
and  all  else  within  my  grasp  ;  the  letters  of 
Saint  Jerome,  his  treatises  on  education  for  the 
benefit  of  the  little  Marcella  ;  the  letters,  too, 
of  Saint  Gregory  of  Nazianzen  ;  the  poems  of 
Saint  Paulinus  ;  the  '  Spiritual  Field  '  of  Jean 
Mose  ;  the  writings  of  Saint  Theresa,  of  Louis 
de  Blois  ;  the  letters  of  Saint  Bernard,  and  his 
opusculi,  addressed  to  his  sister  ;  the  writings 
of  Saint  Catherine  of  Genoa,  so  esteemed  by 
Leibnitz ;  Saint  Francis  de  Sales.  I  will  go 
on  with  my  catalogue  by  and  by  ;  I  must  now 
tell  my  rosary. 

[No  date.']  —  Since  this  pause  many  days 
have  passed,  many  events  occurred  at  Cayla, 
which  kept  me  away  from  my  little  room. 
Here  I  am  for  a  moment,  in  which  thou  shalt 
see  my  four  days,  all  that  time  that  passed  with- 
out writing.  But  no  ;  is  it  worth  while  to  mark 
down  my  time  ?  It  is  but  writing  in  dust.  I 
don't  know  why  I  fancy  that  it  can  give  thee 
any  pleasure,  this  rubbish  of  things,  days,  and 
paper.      Mimi  arrived  yesterday  with   Eliza,  to 


92  Journal  of 

whom  I  have  given  up  my  little  room  ;  that  is 
to  say,  that  I  enter  it  less,  read  less,  think  less. 
I  belong  to  Eliza,  and  am  just  going  to  join  her 
for  a  walk. 

lythJune.  —  I  return  to  my  forsaken  book, 
and  note  down  therein  what  has  come  to  me 
in  the  course  of  the  day  :  two  beautiful  books, 
the  '  Imitation'  of  Lamennais.  and  the  'Spirit- 
ual Guide  '  of  Louis  de  Blois.  Thanks,  Mau- 
rice, for  these  pious  presents.  They  will  be 
two  relics  for  the  soul  and  the  heart  both,  and 
we  will  pray  for  thee  every  time  that  we  read, 
Mimi  her  '  Guide,'  and   I   my  '  Imitation.' 

i 8th.  —  M.  the  Cure  has  just  gone  away, 
leaving  me  one  of  thy  letters,  that  he  furtively 
slippe4  into  my  hand  in  the  midst  of  them  all. 
I  very  quietly  trembled  my  thanks,  and,  guess- 
ing what  it  was.  I  went  out  and  read  thee  at  my 
ease  in  the  rabbit-warren.  How  fast  I  walked, 
how  I  shook,  how  I  burned  over  that  letter  in 
which  at  last  I  was  to  see  thee  I  I  have  seen 
you,  but  I  do  not  feel  that  I  know  you  ;  it  is 
only  your  head  that  you  show  me  ;  it  is  the 
heart,  the  soul,  their  secrets,  that  which  con- 
stitutes your  life,  that  I  had  expected  to  behold. 
You  only  show  me  your  way  of  thinking.  You 
make  me  rise,  and  I  wanted  to  descend,  to 
know  thee  through    and  through  in  thy  tastes, 


Eugenie  de  Gun  in.  93 

thy  moods,  thy  principles  ;  in  a  word,  to  make 
a  tour  of  discovery  in  every  chink  and  cranny 
of  thy  nature.  I  am  therefore  not  satisfied  with 
what  you  tell  me,  and  yet  I  find  in  it  reason  to 
bless  God,  for  I  expected  worse.  I  shall  tell 
thee  all  this  in  my  letter,  it  is  useless  here ;  my 
reflections  would  be  all  ancient  history  by  the 
time  you  read  them. 

io//z.  —  Am  I  not  unfortunate  >  I  wanted  to 
write  a  letter  ;  I  began  it,  and  could  not  go  on, 
for  want  of  ideas.  My  head  is  empty  just  now. 
There  are  times  when  I  find  myself  exhausted, 
when  my  mind  dries  up  like  a  fountain  ;  then 
it  takes  to  flowing  again.  Meanwhile,  waiting 
for  a  fresh  water-supply,  I  admire  my  turtle- 
dove, that  is  cooing  away  with  all  its  might 
below  my  window. 

I  am  going  to  write  to  thee  privately ;  and,  to 
circumvent  the  inquisitive  who  may  chance  to 
come  into  my  room,  I  shall  have  two  letters, 
—  one  above,  one  below,  —  and  when  any  one 
comes  I  shall  only  have  to  transpose  them. 
What  I  am  telling  thee  would  be  understood 
by  no  one,  with  the  exception  of  Mimi,  who  is 
in  the  secret.  Papa  would  be  pained  at  it, 
and  would  make  himself  uneasy  about  thee. 
It  is  better  to  deceive  him,  and  let  him  be- 
lieve  that   I   am   writing  to    Louise,  as    I    told 


94  Journal  oj 

him.  For  I  really  am  going  to  begin  my 
double  letter,  and  to  speak  in  two  voices. 
Now  for  it  ! 

A  wedding  is  going  along  the  Cordes  road  ; 
just  now  they  were  tolling  for  a  death  in  that 
direction.  Such  is  human  life.  1  see  the  whole 
of  it  in  my  little  picture. 

i  itk.  —  We  have  lost  one  of  our  poor  people, 
the  lame  Annette,  she  who  kissed  me  so  warmly 
for  some  grapes  I  gave  her.  Poor  girl  !  I  hope 
that  she  is  now  praying  for  us  in  heaven.  She 
died  without  thinking  of  it  ;  or,  rather,  she 
thought  of  it  every  day,  but  she  was  not  con- 
scious of  the  approach  of  her  last  hour. 

17//).  —  A  day  of  mourning.  We  have  lost 
my  grandmother.  This  morning  Papa  entered 
my  room  early,  came  up  to  my  bed,  and,  taking 
my  hand,  pressed  it,  saying,  "  Get  up,  dear.*' 
"  Whv  -  Again  he  pressed  my  hand  :  '•  Get 
up."  "Something  is  the  matter;  tell  me." 
"  My  mother  ..."  I  understood  at  once  ;  I 
had  left  her  dying. 

31s/. — This  book,  that  I  forsake  and  then 
return  to,  of  what  use  will  it  be  if  I  continue 
it?  An  idea  occurs  to  me.  If  I  die  before 
thee,  I  bequeath  it  to  thee.  It  will  be  pretty 
nearly  all  my  property,  but  this  legacy  of  the 
heart  will  surely  have   some  value  for  thee.      I 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  95 

determine  therefore  to  enrich  it,  that  thou 
mayest  say,  "  My  sister  left  me  all  she  could." 
A  fine  fortune,  indeed;  a  few  sadnesses,  tears, 
thoughts,  making  up  almost  the  whole  of  the 
life  !  If  anything  better  ever  occurs  in  it,  it  is 
rare  !  so  rare  that  one  gets  transported  with  it, 
as  I  do  when  something  comes  to  me  from 
Heaven,  or  from  those   I  love. 

For  the  last  fortnight  I  have  had  several  of 
these  sweet  moments.  All  my  friends  have 
written  to  me  about  my  grandmother,  and  said 
many  tender  and  consolatory  things  on  the  sub- 
ject of  her  death  ;  but  God  alone  can  console. 
To  the  heart  when  it  is  sad,  human  props,  that 
bend  beneath  its  weight  of  sadness,  will  not 
suffice.  This  reed  must  have  better  supports 
than  other  reeds.  Oh,  how  well  Jesus  has  said, 
"  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  are  heavy  laden  !  " 
It  is  only  there,  only  in  the  bosom  of  God,  that 
we  can  weep  tears  that  truly  relieve  us.  How 
happy  we  are,  we  who  are  Christians  I  We 
have  no  sorrows  that  God  does  not  soothe. 

\st  August.  —  This  evening  my  turtle-dove  has 
died,  I  have  no  idea  of  what,  for  it  was  cooing 
away  quite  lately.  Poor  little  thing,  how  I 
regret  it !  I  loved  it  ;  it  was  pure  white,  and 
every  morning  its  voice  was  the  first  I  heard 
under  my  window,   winter  and  summer  alike. 


gG  Journal  of 

Was  this  enjoyment  or  complaint }      I    do  not 
know  ;  but  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  hear  it.    Here 
is  one  pleasure  less.     So  it  is,  each  day  we  lose 
some  delight.      I   shall  place  my  dove  under  a 
rose-bush  on  the  terrace.     It  seems  to  me  that 
it  will   be  comfortable  there,  and  that  its  soul 
(if  soul  it  has)  will   repose  sweetly  in  that  nest 
beneath   the   flowers.     I  am  rather  inclined  to 
believe  in  the  souls  of  animals,  and  I  should  even 
like  there  to  be  a  little  paradise  for  harmless  and 
gentle  ones,  like  doves,  dogs,  and  lambs.     But 
then,  what  to  do  with  wolves  and  other  wicked 
sorts !    To  damn  them  goes  against  me.    Hell  is 
only  the  punishment    of   unrighteousness,    and 
what  unrighteousness    does     the   wolf   commit 
when  he  eats  a  lamb  ?    He  wants  it,  and  this  want, 
which  does  not  justify  the  man,  justifies  the  ani- 
mal, that  has  not  received  any  law  superior  to 
\hat  of  instinct.      In  following  its  instinct,  it  is 
good  or  bad  merely  with  relation  to  us  ;  there  is 
no  will,  that  is  to  say,  no  choice,  in  brute  actions, 
and    consequently    neither    right    nor    wrong, 
neither  paradise  nor  hell.     Nevertheless,  I  can't 
help  regretting  paradise,  and  that  there  should 
be  no  animals  in  heaven.     My  God  !  what  is  it  I 
am  saying  }     Shall  we  want  anything  pertaining 
to  here  below  to  make  us  blest  there  above  - 
2nd.  —  Rain  ;  and  one  of  thy   letters.     This 


Eugenie  de  Gueriu.  97 

letter  was  confidently  expected  because  of  the 
events  that  have  taken  place  both  here  and  at 
Paris.  You  had  heard  from  the  family  plans  of 
marriage  and  tidings  of  death,  and  you  were 
bound  to  inform  me  what  that  infernal  machine 
that  exploded  was,  and  what  came  of  the  explo- 
sion. Deaths,  calamities,  tears  !  How  I  pity 
thee  for  being  upon  that  volcano,  Paris  ! 

yd.  —  Nothing. 

4th.  —  I  have  wanted  to  speak  to  thee  of  thy 
birth,  of  my  joy  when  I  heard  of  it,  and  how  I 
made  haste  to  open  that  portmanteau  where 
Papa  told  me  he  had  got  thee.  I  wanted  to  tell 
thee  all  that  and  many  other  things,  about  the 
baptism  and  thy  early  life :  but  I  was  sad, 
afflicted,  tearful  ;  and  when  I  weep  I  do  not 
write,  I  only  pray,  —  it  is  all  I  can  do.  But  now 
a  degree  of  serenity  is  returning  to  me.  God 
has  been  with  me  ;  then  came  books,  and  a  letter 
from  Louise,  —  three  things  that  make  me  happy. 
When  I  began  to  write  I  was  quite  sad,  and 
afterwards  I  felt  almost  joy,  and  that  I  had  God 
within  my  heart.  Oh,  my  friend,  did  you  but 
know  how  sweetly  the  soul  in  affliction  consoles 
itself  in  God  !  what  strength  it  draws  from 
divine  power  I 

The  book  —  I  mean  the  work  which  gives  me 
such  delight  —  is  Fen61on,  that  Papa  has  bought 
vol.  1.  —  7 


98  Journal  of 

me.  All  my  life  Ion l;  1  had  wished  to  have 
these  '  Spiritual  Letters,'  so  sweet,  so  heavenly, 
so  adapted  to  every  condition  and  attitude  of  the 
soul.  I  shall  make  them  my  consolation  and 
support  now  that  I  am  about  to  lose  M.  Bories, 
and  that  my  soul  feels  itself  as  it  were  orphaned. 
I  had  asked  some  substitute  from  God,  and 
these  letters  have  come  to  me  ;  accordingly,  I 
look  upon  them  as  a  gift  from  Heaven.  Thanks 
to  God  and  to  my  father. 

20//K  —  I  have  just  been  hanging  around  my 
neck  a  medal  of  the  blessed  Virgin  that  Louise 
has  sent  me  as  a  preservative  from  the  cholera. 
It  is  the  medal  that  has  worked  so  many  mira- 
cles, they  say.  This  is  not  an  article  of  faith, 
but  it  does  no  harm  to  believe  it.  I  do  there- 
fore believe  in  the  holy  medal  as  in  the  sacred 
image  of  a  mother  the  sight  of  whom  may  do 
one  good.  I  shall  throughout  life  wear  on  my 
heart  this  holv  relic  of  the  Virgin  and  of  my 
friend,  and  will  have  faith  in  it  if  the  cholera 
comes.  —  a  disease  for  which  there  is  no  human 
remedy.  Let  us  then  have  recourse  to  the 
miraculous.  People  do  not  sufficiently  trust  to 
Heaven,  and  so  they  tremble.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  thi^>  advance  of  the  cholera  does  not 
affect  me.  I  should  not  think  about  it  were  it 
not  for  the  prayers  ordered  by  the  Archbishop. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  99 

Why  is  this,  I  wonder?  Can  it  be  through  in- 
difference ?  I  should  be  sorry  for  that.  I 
would  be  insensible  to  nothing,  not  even  the 
plague.     Whence  comes  my  security  ? 

21s/.  —  Here  is  another  ornament  for  my 
little  room,  —  Saint  Theresa,  that  I  have  been 
at  length  able  to  get  framed.  I  was  longing  to 
have  this  beautiful  saint  before  my  eyes,  above 
the  table  where  I  say  my  prayers,  where  I 
write,  where  I  read.  It  will  be  an  inspiration, 
helping  me  to  pray,  love,  and  suffer  well.  I 
shall  raise  my  heart  and  eyes  to  her  in  my 
prayers  and  my  sadnesses.  I  begin  at  once  and 
say,  "  Look  down  on  me  from  heaven,  blessed 
Saint  Theresa ;  see  me  on  my  knees  before 
your  picture,  contemplating  the  features  of  a 
lover  of  Jesus  with  an  earnest,  desire  to  have 
them  engraved  in  me.  Obtain  for  me  this  holy 
resemblance,  obtain  for  me  something  of  your- 
self; lend  me  your  glance  to  seek  for  God, 
your  mouth  to  pray  to  Him,  your  heart  to  love 
Him.  May  I  obtain  your  courage  in  adversity, 
your  meekness  in  suffering,  your  constancy  in 
temptation."  Saint  Theresa  suffered  for  twenty 
years  from  disinclination  to  prayer  without  let- 
ting herself  be  disheartened.  This  is  of  all  her 
triumphs  the  one  that  surprises  me  most.  I  am 
far  from  such  constancy,  but  I  like  to  remember 


ioo  Journal  of 

that  when  I  lost  my  mother  I  went,  like  Saint 
Theresa,  to  throw  myself  at  the  feet  of  the 
Holy  Virgin,  and  pray  her  to  take  me  for  her 
daughter.  This  occurred  before  the  Chapel  of 
the  Rosary,  in  the  Church  of  Saint  Peter's  at 
Gaiilac.     I   was  then  thirteen. 

2yd. —  But  for  the  dreams  that  I  had  last 
night  I  should  not  write  to  thee:  but  I  have  seen 
thee,  have  embraced  thee,  spoken  to  thee  ;  and 
of  all  this,  illusion  though  it  be,  I  needs  must 
speak,  because  my  heart  is  touched  thereby. 
Raymond  is  arrived.  Who  knows  whether  he 
may  not  be  bringing  me  a  letter  from  thee  !  1 
should  be  very  glad  to  have  some  private  com- 
munication, such  as  thou  hast  often  sent  on 
similar  occasions.  'T  is  one  sign  of  life  and 
tenderness,  this  dear  writing  ;  let  us  write  to 
each  other,  then,  and  do  thou  write  to  me.  I 
have  just  despatched  a  letter  of  nine  pages  to 
Louise.  Tins  would  be  long,  would  be  endless 
to  any  one  else  ;  but  between  us  two  there  can 
never  be  enough.  When  the  heart  truly  loves, 
it  is  insatiable.  I  should  dearly  like  to  write 
to  thee  in  the  same  way.  There  is  a  cloud  that 
passes,  such  a  black  one  that  I  can  hardly  see 
on  my  white  paper.  This  reminds  me  of  many 
a  dark  thought  that  sometimes  passes  thus  over 
the  soul. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  101 

24//?. — The  morning  began  pleasantly  with 
a  letter  from  Auguste,  who  tells  me  much  about 
you.  This  good  cousin  is  fond  of  you ;  one 
sees  that.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  this 
charming  plan  of  travel  could  get  itself  accom- 
plished, and  that  I  were  one  of  the  party.  Oh, 
to  come  and  see  thee  in  Paris  !  .  .  .  But  no  ; 
that  would  be  too  charming  for  this  world  ;  let 
us  not  think  of  it.  I  have  half  an  idea  that  we 
are  only  to  meet  again  in  the  other  world. 
There  is  this  cholera  ;  no  doubt  it  will  come 
here.  I  expect  it,  and  put  my  soul  in  order  as 
well  as  I  can,  so  as  not  to  die  unprepared,  —  the 
only  thing  to  fear  ;  for  the  misfortune  does  not 
lie  in  quitting  life.  I  do  not  say  this  in  the  sense 
of  one  merely  tired  of  living  ;  there  are  holy 
desires  of  death  that  occur  to  the  Christian  soul. 
Another  cloud,  which  forces  me  to  leave  thee. 
That  cloud  brought  a  deluge  —  thunder,  wind, 
all  the  hurly-burly  of  a  storm.  While  it  lasted 
I  was  running  here  and  there,  thinking  of  my 
chickens,  and  warming  a  shirt  for  this  little  boy 
who  has  arrived  half-drowned  ;  at  present  every- 
thing is  calm  and  going  on  as  usual.  The  ex- 
traordinary does  not  last  long  here.  My  cousin 
Fontenilles  is  come  to  see  us  ;  he  is  to  sleep 
in  the  little  room,  my  dear  nook  that  does  for 
everything,  —  an  excellent  use  of  human  things, 


102  Jour  mil  of 

all  for  all.  But  thou,  my  copybook,  in  with 
thee  ;  this  is  not  for  the  public,  this  belongs  to 
the  intimate,  the  soul ;  this  is  for  one. 

2>th. — Saint  Louis' day  ;  a  great  festival  in 
France  during  a  long  period,  but  oniy  kept  in 
heaven  now  that  kings  are  being  done  away 
with.  Saint  Louis,  pray  for  France  and  for 
thy  descendants  ;  obtain  for  them  the  kingdom 
of  Heaven. 

2'>//;.  —  How  marvellous  grace  is  !  To-day 
I  have  to  admire  it  in  Saint  Genes,  of  whom  it 
made  a  Christian  while  he  was  acting  the  mys- 
teries of  Christianity  on  the  stage.  All  at  once 
God  revealed  Himself  to  his  soul,  and  the  come- 
dian became  a  martyr. 

2-th.  —  My  heart  is  stirred,  penetrated,  en- 
tirely filled  with  a  letter  that  I  have  received 
this  morning  from  M.  de  La  Morvonnais,  in 
which  he  speaks  to  me  of  Marie,  of  another 
world,  of  his  depression,  of  thee,  of  death,  of 
all  those  subjects  that  interest  me  so  much. 
This  is  why  these  letters  give  me  a  delight  that 
I  feared  to  feel  too  keenly  ;  for  all  delights  nre 
dangerous.  But  you  wished  it.  and  therefore 
only  for  love  of  you  I  have  kept  up  this  corre- 
spondence, which  will  now  have  main  charms  ; 
in  the  first  place,  those  of  sympathy.  As  you 
had    told    me   was   the    case.    I    lind   that   your 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  103 

friend  has  nearly  the  same  ideas  as  my  own 
respecting  the  religious  and  the  mournful  ;  his 
soul  often  weeps  and  prays  like  mine. 

To-day  he  tells  me  that  his  prayers  are  luke- 
warm and  wandering,  and  asks  me  to  plead  for 
him  before  God.  Most  assuredly  I  will,  for 
his  soul  is  dear  to  me,  and  this  soul  suffers,  and 
excites  my  compassion.  I  will  therefore  pour 
over  it  the  balm  of  prayer,  which,  far  away  as 
I  am,  will  reach  him  by  way  of  heaven.  At 
least,  I  believe  it  will ;  blessed  faith,  which 
gives  me  the  hope  of  consoling  the  afflicted  ! 
This  is  another  reason  why  I  enjoy  this  corre- 
spondence ;  to  do  good  is  so  sweet !  to  comfort 
those  that  weep  is  divine  !  Jesus  did  this  when 
on  earth,  and  it  is  from  Him  I  learn  it.  Yes, 
my  friend,  it  is  from  the  cross  that  come  the 
thoughts  your  friend  finds  so  sweet,  so  inex- 
pressibly tender.  Nothing  is  my  own.  I  feel  my 
aridity,  but  feel  also  that  God,  when  He  wills, 
makes  an  ocean  flow  over  the  sandy  bed.  It  is 
thus  with  many  a  simple  soul  from  whence  ad- 
mirable things  proceed,  because  they  are  in 
direct  relation  with  God,  have  no  science  and 
no  pride.  Hence  I  am  losing  my  taste  for 
books.  I  say  to  myself,  what  can  they  teach 
me  but  what  I  shall  one  day  know  in  heaven  ? 
Let  God  be  my  master  and  my  study  !     And  I 


104  Journal  oj 

act  accordingly,  and  find  it  profitable  to  me.     I 

read  little  ;  I  go  out  little  ;  I  introvert  myself. 
Within,  how  much  gets  said,  done,  felt  ;  how 
many  things  go  on  there  !  Oh.  could'st  thou 
see  them  !  but  what  were  the  use  of  their  being 
seen  r  God  alone  should  penetrate  into  the 
sanctuary  of  the  soul.  To-day  my  soul  abounds 
with  poetry  and  prayer.  I  observe  that  these  two 
streams  flow  together  both  in  me  and  in  others. 

The  blind  man  prays  and  sings  upon  hi>  wan- 
dering way;  the  soldier  on  the  battle-field,  the 
sailor  on  the  seas,  the  poet  over  his  lyre,  the 
priest  before  the  altar,  the  child  as  it  begins 
to  speak,  the  hermit  in  his  cell,  the  angels  in 
heaven,  the  saints  throughout  the  earth,  all  pray 
and  sing  :  it  is  only  the  dead  who  neither  sing 
nor  pray.     Poor  dead  ! 

2'<'th.  — Saint  Augustine's  to-day,  — a  saint  I 
love  so  much  because  he  loved  so  much  :  and 
besides,  I  bear  his  name,  and  I  have  implored 
him  to  give  me  a  portion  of  his  spirit  as  well. 
What  a  beautiful  spirit,  and  how  divinely  it 
reveals  itself  in  his  '  Confessions  ! '      At   every 

rd  of  that  book  one  feels  the  love  of  God 
penetrate  drop  by  drop  into  the  heart,  however 
hard  it  be.  Why  have  I  net  a  memory  to  retain 
it  all?  but  unfortunately  mine  is  mi  evanescent, 
I  might  as  well  read  nothing  ;  it  did  not  use  to 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  105 

be  so.  The  truth  is,  I  am  declining,  and  all  my 
faculties  decrease,  except  that  of  loving.  Love 
is  the  soul  which  dies  not  ;  which  goes  on  grow- 
ing, soaring  like  flame.  I  have  had  a  letter  from 
Louise,  from  my  sweet  friend,  who  always  tells 
me  that  she  loves  me.  The  letter  is  short,  three 
pages  only,  because  she  was  hurried,  and  quite 
taken  up  with  her  sister  the  countess,  who  had 
only  just  arrived.  It  was  in  her  arms  that  Louise 
wrote  me  the  tender  memento  that  quite  suffices 
me  to-day.  It  was  the  Abbe  de  Bayne  d'Alos 
that  brought  it  me,  on  his  return  from  Rayssac. 
2()th.  —  A  beautiful  sky,  beautiful  sun,  beau- 
tiful day.  This  is  in  itself  a  delight ;  for  fine 
weather  is  rare  just  now,  and  I  feel  it  a  boon. 
It  is  indeed  a  great  boon  to  have  lovely  scenery, 
a  pure  air,  and  a  radiant  sky,  —  slight  images, 
these,  of  the  celestial  abode.  —  making  us  think 
of  God  !  I  shall  go  this  evening  to  Cahuzac.  my 
dear  pilgrimage.  Meanwhile  I  must  occupy 
myself  with  my  soul,  and  see  how  it  has  stood 
as  to  its  relations  with  God  during  the  last 
week.  Such  a  retrospect  wonderfully  enlight- 
ens, instructs,  and  advances  the  heart  in  the 
knowledge  of  God  and  of  its  own  self.  Was 
there  not  a  philosopher  who  prescribed  this 
mental  exercise  three  times  a  day  to  his  disci- 
ples, and  his  disciples  practised   it  ?     I  will  do 


106  Journal  of 

the  same  in   the  school  of   Jesus,  that    I    may 
learn  to  be  wise  with  Christian  wisdom. 

31s/.  —  I  spent  the  whole  of  yesterday  at 
Cahuzac.  and  a  few  hours  alone  in  our  grand- 
mother's house.  First  of  all  I  knelt  down  on 
the  "  Prie-Dieu,"  where  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  praying  :  then  I  went  over  her  room,  — -  I 
looked  at  her  chairs,  her  arm-chair,  her  furni- 
ture all  deranged,  as  it  is  when  one  moves  ;  I 
saw  her  bed  empty.  I  went  everywhere  where 
she  used  to  go,  and  remembered  that  passage  of 
Bossuet,  "  The  time  will  come  when  others  will 
pass  where  I  once  was,  and  they  will  find  me 
there  no  more.  There  is  his  room,  there  is  his 
bed,  will  they  say,  and  of  all  this  nothing  remains 
but  my  tomb,  where  it  will  be  said  that  1  am, 
and  I  shall  not  be  there."  Oh,  what  an  idea  of 
our  nothingness  lies  in  this  absence  from  the 
very  tomb,  in  this  so  rapid  dispersion  of  our  dust 
in  the  vaults  of  death  !  To-morrow  I  chatv. 
and  go  to  Cahuzac,  on  account  of  some  repairs 
in  the  house,  which  will  detain  me  some  days. 
These  will  be  quite  unique  days,  and  I  mean  to 
note  them  down,  and  to  take  my  Journal  with 
me.  I  am  going  now  to  write  to  Antoinette,  my 
angel  friend. 

Some   hours  have   passed,   and   now    I    have 
written  to  Antoinette  and  Irene,  and  yet   I   had 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  107 

nothing,  next  to  nothing,  to  tell  them.  My 
life  affords  but  little,  or  Cayla  either,  because 
everything  is  so  quiet  there.  But  then  heart- 
communications  are  sweet,  and  I  am  easily  led 
into  them.  Besides,  they  do  me  good,  and 
relieve  my  soul  of  its  sadness.  When  waters 
begin  to  flow,  they  set  out  with  foam  on  their 
surface,  and  grow  clear  on  their  way.  For  me, 
my  way  lies  in  God  — or  in  a  friend  —  but 
especially  in  God  ;  there  I  hollow  myself  out 
a  channel,  and  find  calm  therein. 

15/  September.  —  Here  I  am  at  Cahuzac  in 
another  little  room,  leaning  on  my  elbow  on  the 
small  table  where  I  write.  Everywhere  I  must 
have  tables  and  paper,  because  everywhere  my 
thoughts  follow  me,  and  want  to  pour  them- 
selves out  for  thee,  my  friend.  I  have  sometimes 
the  idea  that  thou  wilt  find  a  certain  charm  in 
them,  and  this  idea  encourages  and  leads  me 
on  ;  but  for  this,  my  heart  would  very  often  re- 
main closed,  through  indolence  or  indifference, 
to  whatever  is  mine. 

I  have  sometimes  childlike  pleasures  ;  as,  for 
instance,  that  of  coming  for  a  few  days  here. 
You  could  not  imagine  how  cheerfully  I  came 
to  take  possession  of  this  deserted  house.  The 
fact  is,  you  see,  that  I  find  myself  alone  —  quite 
alone  —  in  a  place  that  favours  meditation.     I 


108  Journal  o) 

hear  the  passers-by  without  even  disturbing 
myself :  I  am  at  the  foot  of  the  church  ;  I  can 
catch  the  very  last  vibration  of  the  bell  which 
rings  in  noon,  or  the  Angelus,  and  I  listen  to  it 
as  to  a  harp.  Then  I  can  go  and  pray,  can  con- 
fess when  I  will  ;  this  is  enough  for  a  few  days 
of  happiness,  of  a  happiness  my  very  own. 
Papa  will  come  and  see  me  this  afternoon.  1 
enjoy  this  visit  as  though  we  had  been  separated 
for  a  long  time. 

The  devil  tempted  me  just  now  in  a  little 
closet,  where  I  stumbled  upon  some  romances. 
Read  a  word  or  two,  I  said  to  myself;  let's  just 
look  at  this,  look  at  that  ;  but  the  titles  were 
very  displeasing  to  me.  There  were  '  Love  Let- 
ters of  a  Nun."  'The  General  Confession  of  a 
Rake,'  and  other  histories  of  that  character. 
Fie  upon  the  very  idea  of  my  reading  such  trash  ! 
I  am  no  longer  tempted  now.  and  am  only  going 
to  remove  those  books  from  the  closet,  or  rather 
to  throw  them  into  the  fire. 

22nd.  —  Ever  since  I  returned  from  Cain; 
mv  confidant  has  been  sleeping  in  a  corner,  and 
would  sleep  there  still,  were  this  not  the  22nd 
of  September,  the  day  of  Saint  Maurice,  and  thy 
name-day.  which  has  afforded  me  a  degree  of 
joy,  and  re-opened  my  heart  to  the  pleasure  of 
writing  to  thee  and  leaving  some  memorials  here. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  109 

I  remember  that  on  the  same  day  last  year  I  also 
wrote  to  thee,  and  spoke  about  thy  festival.  I 
was  happy  :  I  saw  to-day,  and  thee,  —  hoping 
then  to  embrace  thee  on  Saint  Maurice's  ;  and 
there  thou  art  a  hundred  leagues  off  1  My  God  ! 
how  ill  we  reckon,  and  how  little  ought  we  to 
reckon  upon  anything  in  life  ! 

Monsieur  the  Cure  and  his  sister  have  come 
to  keep  thy  festival,  and  drink  thy  health.  But 
what  is  better  is  that  Monsieur  the  Cure  re- 
membered thee  at  mass,  and  that  Francoise  also 
prayed  for  you.  May  Saint  Maurice  protect 
thee,  and  make  thee  strong  in  the  conflicts  of 
life  I  Will  you  bring  me  back  his  image  that  I 
gave  you  ? 

27th.  -1... 

[No  date.']  —  You  must  not  be  surprised  at 
the  gaps  in  this  Journal,  not  even  at  an  entire 
abandonment  of  it.  I  do  not  care  much  for 
writing  down  what  passes,  sometimes  not  at 
all,  unless  the  idea  of  giving  you  pleasure  comes 
across  me.  Sometimes  it  puts  the  pen  in  my 
hand  and  dictates  to  me  interminably.  But,  my 
friend,  wilt  thou  indeed  ever  read  me  ?  Would 
it  be  well  for  thee  to  see  me  thus,  to  see  down 
to  the  very  depths  of  my  soul  ?  This  doubt 
keeps  me  back,  so  that  I  do  not  say  much,  or 
1  Here  a  whole  page  is  effaced. 


no  Journal  of 

rather  say  nothing  fur  whole  months.  To-day, 
a  Sunday  morning  in  my  little  room,  before  my 
cross  and  my  Saint  Theresa,  my  soul  has  felt 
calm  ;  and  therefore  I  thought  I  should  not  do 
you  harm,  and  give  myself  up  once  more  to  the 
charm  of  a  conlidential  outpouring.  Do  not 
let  us  dwell  on  the  past;  let  us  leave  a  blank. 
[19//;  November.]  —  To-day,  November  1  I 
have  taken  up  my  poor  forsaken  book,  already 
gnawed  by  rats,  and  the  idea  has  occurred  to 
me  of  returning  to  it  and  continuing  to  write. 
This  writing  gives  me  pleasure,  diverts  me  in 
my  solitude  :  but  I  have  often  neglected  it,  and 
I  shall  neglect  it  again.  Nevertheless,  I  will  fill 
my  page  to-day,  and  to-morrow  we  shall  see. 
I  find  myself  changed.  My  books,  my  poems, 
my  birds,  that  I  was  so  fond  of,  all  these  used 
to  occupy  my  heart  and  head,  and  now  .  .  . 
No,  I  am  not  doing  right,  and  I  am  not  happy 
since  the  renunciation  of  the  affections  of  my 
life  ;  are  not  they  sufficiently  innocent  for  me 
to  permit  myself  the  whole  of  them  ?  My  God  ! 
the  recluses  of  the  Thebaid  occupied  themselves 
in  the  same  way.  I  see  them  work,  read,  pray, 
write  ;  some  of  them  singing,  others  making 
mats  and  baskets,  all  working  for  God,  who 
blessed  the  labour  of  each.  In  like  manner  I 
will  offer  Him  my  days  and  everything  that  is 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  \  \  \ 

to  fill  them,  whether  work  or  prayers,  whether 
writing  or  thoughts,  not  excepting  this  little 
manuscript  book  that  I  also  desire  to  see  blest. 

[No  date."}  —  I  have  passed  the  day  in  com- 
plete solitude,  alone,  quite  alone  ;  Papa  is  at 
the  Cordes  fair,  Eran  dining  at  the  priest's 
house,  Mimi  at  Gaillac.  They  are  all  dispersed, 
and  I  for  my  part  have  thought  much,  and  real- 
ized what  a  longer  dispersion  would  be  ;  and 
that,  alas  !  will  come  one  day.  But  I  am  wrong 
in  dwelling  upon  gloomy  thoughts  that  do  me 
so  much  harm.  These  things  are  to  the  soul 
what  clouds  are  to  the  eyes. 

30//1.  —  Oh,  my  God,  more  tears!  In  vain 
we  determine  not  to  afflict  ourselves  ;  every  day 
brings  some  affliction,  some  loss.  Here  we  are 
now  mourning  that  poor  cousin  De  Th<§zac, 
who  was  so  fond  of  us.  Oh,  no  doubt  he  is 
better  off  now  than  we  ;  he  must  be  in  heaven, 
for  he  suffered  much.  His  patience  was  admi- 
rable, both  throughout  his  life  of  pain  and  just 
now  in  his  last  trials.  Mimi,  whom  I  was  ex- 
pecting, was  not  able  to  come  ;  she  remained 
with  the  sufferer,  helping  him,  exhorting  him  in 
his  last  moments,  speaking  to  him  of  heaven. 

Oh,  how  well  Mimi  knows  to  speak  on  these 
subjects,  and  how  I  should  wish  to  have  her  by 
my  side  when  I  was  dying  !     Papa  is  gone  to 


1 1 2  Journal  of 

see  the  bereaved  family,  and  I  am  alone  in  my 
room,  with  my  thoughts  in  mourning,  and  the 
thousand  voices  of  the  wind  that,  like  an  organ, 
moans  for  the  dead.  One  should  find  this 
accompaniment  good  for  praying,  for  writing  ; 
but  what  should  I  write  .-  A  little  sleep  will  be 
better.  The  repose  of  the  body  passes  over 
into  the  soul.  I  am  therefore  going  to  bed, 
after  a  Dc  prcfunJis  for  the  dead,  and  a  remem- 
brance of  thee  before  God.  May  He  grant 
thee  a  good  night  !  I  never  go  to  sleep  without 
occupying  myself  about  thy  rest.  Who  knows, 
I  say  to  myself,  if  Maurice  is  as  comfortable  as 
he  would  be  here,  where  I  should  see  to  the 
making  of  his  bed  ?  Who  knows  whether  he 
may  not  be  cold  }  Who  knows  r  .  .  .  and  a 
thousand  other  too  tender  tendernesses. 

is/  December.  —  I  am  thinking  of  the  grave 
that  opens  this  morning  at  Gaillac  to  swallow 
up  those  human  remains  until  God  shall  revive 
them.  This  is  the  fate  of  us  all  ;  we  must  be 
thrown  into  the  earth,  must  decay  in  the  fur- 
rows of  death  before  we  can  attain  to  flowering- 
time  ;  but  then,  how  happy  we  shall  be  to  live, 
and  even  to  have  lived  !  Immortality  will  make 
us  feel  the  full  value  of  life,  and  all  that  we  owe 
to  God  for  having  drawn  us  out  of  nothingness. 
This  is  a  blessing  of  which   we  think  but  little 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  113 

and  enjoy  almost  unconsciously  ;  for  often  life 
gives  no  pleasure.  But  what  matters  that  to 
the  Christian  ?  Through  tears  and  rejoicings 
alike,  he  ever  walks  towards  heaven  ;  his  goal 
is  there,  what  he  meets  on  the  way  can  hardly 
turn  him  aside.  Do  you  think  that,  if  I  were 
running  to  you,  a  flower  in  my  path,  or  a  thorn 
in  my  foot,  would  have  power  to  stop  me  ? 

Here  I  am  at  the  evening  of  a  day  filled  with 
a  myriad  of  thoughts,  and  with  a  variety  of 
things  of  which  I  am  taking  account  beside  my 
bedroom  fire,  by  the  light  of  a  little  lamp,  now 
my  only  companion  at  night.  But  for  the  mis- 
fortune that  has  taken  place  at  Gaillac,  I  should 
have  Mimi  by  my  side,  and  we  should  chat,  and 
I  should  tell  to  her  herself  what  I  should  but 
say  ill  to  this  dumb   confidant. 

2nd.  —  Nothing  interesting  but  the  arrival  of 
a  little  dog,  who  is  to  be  Lion's  substitute  with 
the  flock.  He  is  handsome  and  very  caressing; 
I  like  him  and  am  trying  to  find  a  name  for  him. 
It  would  be  Polydor  in  remembrance  of  the 
dog  of  La  Chenaie  ;  but  for  a  shepherd  dog  it 
is  a  pretentious  name ;  Battle  will  be  more 
appropriate  to  the  champion  of  the  flock. 

The  air  is  mild  this  morning,  the  birds  sing  as 
in  spring,  and  some  sunshine  visits  my  little 
room.  I  like  it  thus,  and  enjoy  myself  as  much 
vol.  1.  —  8 


1 14  journal  of 

in  it  as  in  the  most  beautiful  place  in  the  world, 
all  solitary  as  it  is.  This  is  because  I  make  of  it 
just  what  I  will,  —  a  drawing-room,  a  church,  an 
academy.  When  I  like  I  am  in  it  with  Lamar- 
tine,  Chateaubriand,  Fenelon  ;  a  crowd  of  great 
minds  surrounds  me  ;  next  come  saints,  —  Saint 
Theresa,  Saint  Louis,  the  patron  of  my  friend 
Louise,  —  and  a  little  image  of  the  Annunciation, 
in  which  I  contemplate  a  gracious  mystery  and 
God's  purest  creatures,  the  angel  and  the  Virgin. 
This  ought  to  be  enough  to  satisfy  me  here,  and 
to  wall  up  my  door  against  all  that  may  be  seen 
elsewhere.  But  no,  I  could  not  keep  to  it  long  ; 
nay.  at  the  least  word  of  letters  or  news,  I  should 
leave  it  to  go  and  read  or  listen,  especially  to- 
day that  I  am  expecting  something  from  Mimi 
and  from  you.  You  neglect  me  :  it  is  a  month 
and  more  since  you  have  written  to  me.  I  shall 
find  this  a  long  day  ;  in  order  to  cut  it  short  I 
am  going  to  write  to  Louise.  I  have  had  two 
letters  from  her  ;  two  treasures,  two  little  mar- 
vels of  wit  and  tenderness.  Oh,  what  letters! 
all  these  exquisite  things  are  for  me,  and  yet  1 
feel  sad  !  What  would'st  thou  have,  then,  poor 
heart  } 

irJ.  —  A  letter  from  Mimi  I  How  much  hap- 
piness a  letter  brings,  and  what  a  charm  there  is 
in  hearing  from  those  who  are  away,  and  whom 


Eugenie  de  G  tier  in.  115 

we  cannot  see  for  a  long-  time  to  come  !  This 
voice  of  the  heart  brings  them  near,  and  seems 
to  say  to  you.  Here  they  are  ;  in  these  pages 
you  see  their  soul  and  their  love,  their  thoughts, 
their  actions  ;  their  whole  being  is  contained 
therein  ;  it  is  the  envelope  only  that  is  wanting 
to  you.  And  this  consoles  wonderfully  for  ab- 
sence. I  would  fain  wish,  should  you  ever  read 
this,  to  persuade  thee  of  the  profound  delight  I 
receive  from  thy  letters,  and  of  my  correspond- 
ing sorrow  when  they  do  not  arrive.  No  doubt 
you  will  write  to  me  oftener  in  future. 

4D1.  —  A  letter  from  Mimi,  a  letter  from 
Louise  ;  Paul  is  arrived  ;  joy,  joy,  joy  !  I  have 
not  time  to  write  to  thee. 

5th.—  In  the  course  of  the  day,  in  a  few 
hours,  I  shall  be  at  Gaillac,  far  from  here,  far 
from  Papa,  from  my  little  room,  from  all  that 
makes  my  life.  Not  a  moment  to  write  in. 
With  what  regret  I  go  ;  but  then  I  am  to  join 
Mimi,  and  be  with  her  for  a  day,  and  that 
consoles  me. 


Wilt  thou  accept  it,  my  friend,  this  book, 
written  during  the  last  two  years?  It  is  old 
indeed,  but  the  things  of  the  heart  are  eternal. 
Time,  methinks,  in  no  way  affects  them  ;  I  there- 


1 1 6  Journal  of 

fore  give  thee  up  these,  after  a  few  correc- 
tions, a  few  lines  erased.  When  we  go  back 
over  the  past,  we  must  needs  efface  ;  we  find 
so  many  errors  in  it !  We  used  to  even  talk 
nonsense  with  thee  once  upon  a  time  as  we 
walked  together. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  \\j 


III. 

1836. 
T  CHANGE  the  form  of  my  Journal,  to 
-*■  make  it  more  convenient  for  my  pocket, 
into  which  I  mean  to  put  it  when  I  go  from 
home.  In  this  way  we  shall  find  in  it  whatever 
chances  to  strike  me  when  I  go  out,  whether 
into  the  world  or  into  the  country.  Upon  such 
occasions  I  see,  hear,  feel,  think,  a  thousand 
things  that  please,  displease,  surprise  me,  and 
that  I  should  like  to  fix  somewhere  or  other. 
This  would  be  useful,  showing  me  in  some  de- 
gree what  I  am  when  away  from  home,  when 
mixing  with  the  world,  its  conversations  and 
amusements,  and  all  else  to  which  I  am  un- 
accustomed. I  am  conscious  of  something 
unwonted  going  on  within  me  at  these  times  ; 
thoughts  and  feelings  before  unknown  occur  to 
me,  and  I  feel  that  I  am  not  like  others,  nor 
like  what  I  am  here.  When  thus  in  this  unusual 
mood  I  am  aware  of  it,  indeed,  but  fail  to  take 
any  particular  note  of  it,  and  yet  it  would  be 
well  to  see  whither  it  leads  me.     I  shall  revert 


1 1 8  join  ual  oj 

to  this  subject  ;  but  now  I  have  something  even 
better  to  do  than  to  write  :  I  am  going  to  pray. 
Oh.  how  I  love  prayer ! 

I  would  that  all  the  world  knew  how  to  pray  ! 
I  would  that  children,  and  those  who  are  old  ; 
that  the  poor,  the  afflicted,  the  diseased  in  body 
and  mind.  —  that  all  who  live  and  suffer  could 
feel  the  balm  of  prayer !  But  I  cannot  speak  of 
these  things.  What  should  be  said  of  them  is 
ineffable. 

Our  new  Cure  came  to  see  us  to-day.  He  is 
a  mild,  cheerful  man,  wearing  on  his  countenance 
the  impress  of  a  beautiful  soul.  I  should  think 
he  was  clever,  but  he  does  not  let  it  appear. 
His  conversation  is  most  ordinary,  without  any 
characteristic  features,  any  bright  sallies,  merely 
going  on  in  a  plain  way  from  one  thing  to 
another.  But,  however.  I  observe  that  he  answers 
correctly,  and  speaks  d  propos.  He  is  a  simple 
tor  of  simple  souls  ;  quite  full  of  God,  and 
nothing  more. 

1 1 th  March.  —  I  have  a  very  happy  heart  to- 
day. Eran  is  gone  to  confess.  I  hope  much 
from  this  confession  to  the  gentle  Cure,  who 
knows  so  well  how  to  speak  of  Cod's  mercy. 
And  then  to-day  is  Papa's  birthday  too. 

i2//?.  —  I  was  admiring  just  now  a  little  land- 
scape, presented   by  my  room,  as  it   was  being 


Eugenie  de  Giierin.  119 

illuminated  with  the  rising  sun.  How  pretty  it 
was  !  Never  did  I  see  a  more  beautiful  effect  of 
light  on  the  paper,  thrown  through  painted  trees. 
It  was  diaphanous,  transparent.  It  was  almost 
wasted  on  my  eyes  ;  it  ought  to  have  been  seen 
by  a  painter.  And  yet  does  not  God  create 
the  beautiful  for  everybody  ?  All  our  birds  were 
singing  this  morning  while  I  was  at  my  prayers. 
This  accompaniment  pleases  me,  though  it  dis- 
tracts me  a  little.  I  stop  to  listen  ;  then  I  begin 
again,  thinking  that  the  birds  and  I  are  alike 
singing  a  hymn  to  God,  and  that,  perhaps,  those 
little  creatures  sing  better  than  I.  But  the 
charm  of  prayer,  the  charm  of  communion  with 
God,  —  they  cannot  enjoy  that ;  one  must  have  a 
soul  to  feel  it.  This  happiness  that  the  birds 
have  not  is  mine.  It  is  only  nine  o'clock,  and  I 
have  already  known  joy  and  sorrow.  How  little 
time  is  needed  for  that !  The  joy  comes  from 
the  sun,  the  mild  air,  the  song  of  birds,  — all  de- 
lights to  me,  —  as  well  as  from  a  letter  of  Mimi's 
(who  is  now  at  Gaillac),  in  which  she  tells  me 
of  Madame  Vialar,  who  has  seen  thee,  and  of 
other  cheerful  things.  But  then  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  I  learn  the  departure  of  M.  Bories,  of 
that  kind  and  excellent  father  of  my  soul.  Oh, 
how  I  regret  him  !  What  a  loss  I  shall  have  in 
this  good  guide  of  my  conscience,  my  heart,  my 


i2o  Journal  of 

spirit,  my  whole  self ;  committed  to  his  care  by 
God,  and  intrusted  to  him  by  me  with  such  full 
confidence  !  I  am  sad  with  an  internal  sadness, 
which  makes  my  soul  weep.  My  God,  in  this 
my  desert,  to  whom  can  I  have  recourse  ?  Who 
will  sustain  me  in  my  spiritual  languor ;  who 
will  lead  me  to  the  great  sacrifice  .-  It  is  in  this 
especially  that  I  regret  M.  Bories.  He  knows 
what  God  has  put  into  mv  heart  ;  I  needed  his 
Strength  to  follow  Him.  Our  new  Cure  cannot 
possibly  replace  him.  1  [e  is  so  young,  he  seems 
so  inexperienced,  so  undecided  !  Firmness  is 
required  to  snatch  a  soul  from  out  the  world, 
and  to  uphold  it  against  the  assaults  of  flesh  and 
blood.  It  is  Saturday,  the  day  of  pilgrimage  to 
Cahuzac.  I  am  going  thither;  perhaps  I  shall 
return  thence  tranquillised.  God  has  invariably 
granted  me  some  blessing  in  that  chapel,  where 
I  have  left  so  many  miseries  behind. 

I  was  not  mistaken  in  thinking  that  I  should 
return  tranquillised.  M.  Bories  is  not  going. 
How  happy  I  am,  and  how  I  have  thanked  God 
for  this  favour !  It  is  a  very  great  one  for  me  to 
retain  this  good  Hither,  this  good  guide,  this 
chosen  of  God  for  my  soul,  according  to  the 
expression  of  Saint  Francois  de  Sales.  I  have 
just  been  writing  off  these  tidings  to  Mimi.  I 
shall  not  say  elsewhere  what  I  say  here  ;  it  might 


Eugenie  de  Giierin.  121 

be  taken  ill,  or  not  understood.  The  world 
does  not  know  the  value  of  a  confessor,  of  the 
man  who  is  the  friend  of  the  soul,  its  most  inti- 
mate confidant,  its  physician,  its  master,  its  light ; 
the  man  who  binds  and  looses  us,  who  gives  us 
peace,  who  opens  to  us  heaven,  to  whom  we 
speak  on  our  knees,  calling  him  our  father,  as 
we  do  God,  since,  in  fact,  faith  does  truly  make 
him  God  and  Father.  Woe  to  me  if,  when  I 
am  at  his  feet,  I  see  anything  but  Jesus  Christ 
listening  to  the  Magdalen,  and  forgiving  her 
much,  because  she  loves  much  !  Confession  is 
an  expansion  of  repentance  into  love.  It  is  a 
very  sweet  thing,  a  great  happiness  for  the 
Christian  soul,  a  great  benefit,  and  ever  greater 
in  proportion  as  we  enjoy  it  more,  and  as  the 
heart  of  the  priest  to  which  we  pour  out  our 
tears  resembles  the  Divine  heart  //2a/  has  so 
loved  us.  This  it  is  that  attaches  me  to  M. 
Bories.    Thou  wilt  understand  me. 

On  my  way  to  Cahuzac  I  wanted  to  see  a 
poor  sick  woman  who  lives  beyond  the  Vere. 
It  was  she  of  the  ballad  of  the  '  Rose-tree,1 
which  I  think  I  related  to  thee.  My  God,  what 
wretchedness  !  On  entering  I  saw  a  low  bed, 
from  which  a  death's  head,  or  nearly  so,  raised 
itself.  However,  she  knew  me.  I  went  nearer, 
that    I    might   speak   to   her,  and    I   discovered 


122  journal  of 

water,  a  regular  puddle,  beside  that  bed  ;  all 
sorts  of  filth,  rendered  liquid  by  the  rain,  which 
falls  through  the  miserable  roof,  and  by  the  foun- 
tain that  lurks  below  that  miserable  bed.  It  was 
all  infection,  wretchedness,  rotten  rags,  vermin. 
To  have  to  live  there  !  Poor  creature  !  She 
was  without  fire,  without  bread,  without  water  to 
drink,  lying  upon  some  hemp  and  potatoes  that 
she  kept  under  her  to  preserve  them  from  the 
frost.  A  woman  who  followed  us  removed  her 
from  that  dunghill,  another  brought  in  some 
fagots.  We  made  her  a  fire,  and  put  her  to  sit 
on  a  silou  ;  and,  as  I  was  tired,  I  seated  myself 
beside  her  on  the  unused  fagots.  I  spoke  to 
her  of  the  good  God  ;  nothing  more  easy  than 
to  get  listened  to  by  the  poor,  the  unhappy,  the 
forsaken,  when  we  speak  to  them  of  heaven. 
This  is  because  there  is  nothing  in  their  hearts 
which  prevents  them  from  listening.  Accord- 
ingly, how  easy  it  is  to  console  them,  to  recon- 
cile them  to  death  !  The  ineffable  peace  of  their 
-muIs  might  well  make  us  envy  them.  This  sick 
woman  of  ours  is  happy,  and  nothing  is  more 
surprising  than  to  meet  with  happiness  in  such  a 
creature  and  in  such  a  dwelling.  It  is  a  thousand 
times  worse  than  a  pigsty.  I  did  not  see  a  place 
to  lay  down  my  shawl  without  dirtying  it  ;  and,  as 
it  was  in   my  way,    I   dung   it   <>n  the  branches 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  123 

of  a  willow  before  the  door.  For  all  that  there 
was  on  it  .   .   . 

14//2.  —  A  child's  visit  cut  my  story  short  yes- 
terday. I  am  as  fond  of  children  as  of  the  aged 
poor.  One  of  these  children  was  very  taking, 
quick,  lively,  inquisitive.  He  wanted  to  see 
and  know  everything.  He  watched  me  writing, 
and  took  the  sand  for  pepper,  with  which  I  was 
supposed  to  be  preparing  my  paper.  Then  he 
made  me  take  down  my  guitar  from  the  wall,  to 
see  what  it  was.  He  placed  his  little  hand  on 
the  strings,  and  was  enchanted  to  hear  them 
sing.  Quts  aco  qui  canto  aqui )  The  wind,  which 
whistled  loudly  through  the  window,  also  sur- 
prised him.  In  short,  my  room  was  an  enchanted 
place  in  his  eyes,  a  thing  he  will  long  remember, 
as  I  should,  if  I  had  seen  the  Palace  of  Armida. 
My  crucifix,  my  Saint  Theresa,  and  the  other 
drawings  I  have  in  my  room,  delighted  him. 
He  wanted  both  to  see  and  to  hold  everything, 
and  his  little  head  kept  turning  like  a  little  mill. 
I  watched  him  with  infinite  pleasure,  enchanted 
on  my  side  with  all  these  charms  of  childhood. 
What  must  a  mother  feel  for  these  lovable 
creatures  1 

After  having  given  the  little  Antoine  all  that 
he  wished,  I  asked  him  for  a  curl  of  his  hair, 
offering  him   one  of   mine  in   exchange.       He 


124  Journal  of 

looked  at  me  with  some  astonishment.  "  No," 
said  he  :  "  mine  are  prettier."  He  was  quite 
tight  ;  hair  thirty  years  old  is  very  ugly  by  the 
side  of  his  fair  curls.  I  obtained,  therefore, 
nothing  but  a  kiss.  They  are  sweet  things, 
these  child's  kisses  ;  it  seems  to  me  as  though 
a  lily  had  rested  on  my  check. 

Yesterday  this  visit  began  my  day.  I  have 
nothing  pleasanter  to  record  of  to-day,  so  I 
leave  it  blank.  All  my  time  has  been  spent  in 
household  occupations,  in  business  ;  no  reading, 
no  writing;  a  quiet  material  day.  Now  that  I 
am  all  alone  in  my  little  room,  I  should  like  to 
read,  should  like  to  write  a  great  deal.  I  don't 
know  about  what,  but  I  am  in  the  vein  for  writ- 
ing. This  would  be  a  good  time  for  poetrv. 
and  I  am  sorry  to  have  none  in  progress.  Shall 
I  begin  some  ?  No;  it  is  too  late.  Night  is 
made  for  sleep,  unless  one  were  Philomel  ;  and, 
besides,  even  if  I  did  begin  anything,  to-morrow 
perhaps  I  should  leave  it  to  the  rats.  Reflection 
soon  plunges  me  to  the  bottom  of  all  things, 
and  I  see  nothingness  in  all,  if  God  be  not  found 
there. 

20//?.  —  A  little  gap.  I  jump  from  the  14th 
to  the  20th.  I  find  so  little  to  say  about  my 
days,  as  like  the  one  to  the  other  as  drops  of 
\\dter.    that    I    say    nothing.       It    really    is   not 


Eugenie  rfe  Guerui.  125 

worth  while  to  spend  ink  and  time  in  record- 
ing them,  and  I  should,  perhaps,  be  doing  better 
in  occupying  myself  with  other  things.  But 
then,  again,  1  feel  the  want  of  writing  and  of 
a  confidant  continually.  I  speak  at  will  to  this 
little  book.  I  tell  it  everything,  —  thoughts, 
pains,  pleasures,  emotions,  —  everything,  in  short 
(except  what  can  only  be  said  to  God),  and 
even  then  I  grudge  what  remains  unspoken. 
But  that  I  think  I  should  do  ill  in  revealing, 
and  conscience  interposes  between  the  pen  and 
the  paper.  Then  I  am  silent.  If  this  surprises 
thee,  my  friend,  knowing  the  life  I  lead,  remem- 
ber that  Mary  the  Egyptian  was  greatly  tor- 
mented in  her  solitude.  There  are  evil  spirits 
scattered  abroad  in  the  air. 

To-day,  and,  indeed,  for  some  time  back,  I 
am  calm,  enjoy  peace  of  heart  and  head  ;  a  state 
of  grace  for  which  I  bless  God.  My  window 
is  open  ;  how  tranquil  everything  is  !  All  the 
little  sounds  from  without  reach  me.  I  love 
that  of  the  brook.  Adieu  !  I  hear  a  church 
clock  at  present,  and  ours  is  answering  it.  This 
sounding  of  the  hours  far  away,  and  in  the  hall, 
assumes  by  night  a  somewhat  mysterious  char- 
acter. I  think  of  the  Trappists  who  awake  to 
pray,  of  the  sick  who  count  hour  after  hour  in 
suffering,  of  the  afflicted  who  weep,  of  the  dead 


126  Journal  of 

who  sleep  frozen  in  their  beds.  Oh.  what  sol- 
emn thoughts  night  brings  !  I  do  not  think  that 
the  wicked,  the  impious,  the  sceptical,  are  as 
perverse  by  night  as  by  day.  A  gentleman  who 
doubts  on  many  subjects  has  often  told  me  that 
in  the  night  time  he  always  believes  in  hell. 
This  is  apparently  because  in  the  day  external 
objects  dissipate  us,  and  divert  the  mind  from 
the  truth.  But  what  am  I  about  to  say  ?  I 
had  such  pleasant  things  to  speak  of.  This 
evening  I  have  received  thy  ribbon,  the  net, 
the  little  box,  with  the  beautiful  pin,  and  the 
pretty  little  note.  All  these  I  have  touched, 
tried  on,  examined,  and  put  by  in  my  heart. 
Thanks  !  thanks  !  Thou  art  anxious  that  I 
should  sleep.  1  tear  myself  hence.  Why  sleep 
instead  of  writing  ? 

2211J. —  Yesterday  passed  away  without  my 
being  able  to  say  anything  to  thee  on  account 
of  occupations,  of  those  household  arrange- 
ments, those  domestic  occurrences  which  take 
away  all  my  time,  and  all  myself,  except  the 
heart,  which  rises  above  them,  and  goes  off  in 
the  direction  that  it  love-.  It  is  now  here, 
now  there  ;  at  Paris,  at  Alby,  where  Mimi  is  ; 
in  the  mountains,  sometimes  in  heaven,  ur  in  a 
church  ;  in  short,  where  1  will,  for  I  am  free 
in  the  midst  of  my  incumbrances,  and  feel  the 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  127 

truth  of  what  the  '  Imitation  '  says,  that  one 
may  pass  without  care  through  the  cares  of 
life.  But  often  these  cares  weigh  on  the  soul, 
fatigue  it,  vex  it,  and  then  it  is  that  it  yearns 
for  solitude.  Oh,  the  blessed  condition  in 
which  one  may  occupy  one's  self  solely  with  the 
one  thing  needful  !  in  which,  at  least,  material 
cares  only  occupy  one  slightly,  and  do  not  take 
up  the  greater  part  of  one's  time.  Now,  here 
am  I,  who  have  had  to  spend  the  whole  day 
long  in  the  kitchen,  my  hands  busy  about  the 
stoves,  and  in  the  oulos,  on  account  of  forty 
diggers,  or  joiners,  or  I  know  not  what. 

Oh,  how  much  better  I  should  like  to  have 
been  here  with  a  book  or  a  pen  !  I  should 
have  written  to  thee,  should  have  told  thee  how 
grateful  thy  missives  were  to  me,  and  I  know 
not  what  beside  ;  that  would  have  been  far 
pleasanter  than  plates  of  soup.  But  why  com- 
plain, and  thus  lose  the  merit  of  self-denial? 
Let  me  make  my  soup  with  a  good  will ;  the 
saints  smiled  at  everything,  and  we  are  told  that 
Saint  Catherine  of  Sienna  used  to  take  much 
delight  in  cooking,  and  to  find  that  it  gave  her 
a  great  deal  to  meditate  upon.  I  should  think 
so  ;  if  it  were  only  the  sight  of  the  fire  and  the 
little  burns  one  gets,  which  make  one  think  of 
purgatory. 


[28  Jour  mi  I  of 

~lh  April.  —  Many  days  have  passed  since  I 
put  down  anything  here  ;  the  holy  week,  the 
great  festival  of  Easter,  all  those  solemnities 
that  keep  the  soul  far  away  from  earth.  I 
have  hardly  remained  here  at  all  except  for 
meals.  Monday  I  was  at  Cahuzac,  and  Tues- 
day too,  detained  there  by  the  rain  ;  Wednesday 
I  spent  at  Andillac,  preparing  the  chapel  for 
Holy  Thursday,  with  Monsieur  the  Cure  and 
the  little  Virginie. 

A  gap  of  several  days.  I  find  myself  now 
arrived  at  a  torn  page  ;  an  accident  that  shall 
not  prevent  me  from  writing.  I  know  besides 
that  a  similar  thing  often  happens  to  the  pages 
of  the  heart.  Shall  I  tell  thee  why  I  keep  my 
Journal  so  little  consecutively  r  It  is  because 
I  am  taken  up  with  a  thousand  things  which 
fill  all  my  time  with  duties  or  occupation.  Now 
this  writing  is  only  a  relaxation,  spare  moments 
that  I  give  thee  when  I  can.  at  night,  in  the 
morning,  at  any  hour  ;  for  every  hour  one  can 
converse  when  it  is  with  the  heart  one  speaks. 
A  fly,  the  slamming  of  a  door,  a  thought  that 
strikes,  what  not,  —  innumerable  things  that  one 
sees,  touches,  feels,  might  lead  me  to  write  vol- 
umes. Last  evening  I  was  reading  Bernardin  ; 
the    first    volume    of    his    '  etudes,1    beginning 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  129 

with  a  strawberry-plant,  that  strawberry-plant 
which  he  describes  with  so  much  charm,  bril- 
liancy, and  feeling  ;  which  might,  he  says, 
prompt  numberless  volumes,  the  study  of  which 
would  suffice  to  fill  the  life  of  the  most  learned 
naturalist,  because  of  its  relation  with  all  the 
kingdoms  of  nature.  My  friend,  I  am  this 
strawberry-plant,  in  relation*  with  earth,  air, 
heaven,  with  the  birds,  with  so  many  things 
invisible  and  visible,  that  I  should  never  have 
done  if  I  began  to  describe  myself  ;  to  say 
nothing  of  what  lives  in  the  folds  of  the  heart, 
like  those  insects  which  lodge  in  the  recesses 
of  a  leaf  :  all  this,  my  friend,  what  a  volume 
it  would  make  ! 

Here  is  a  little  creature  travelling  on  under  my 
pen  not  bigger  than  the  dot  over  an  i.  Who 
knows  where  it  is  going  to,  what  it  lives  upon, 
and  whether  it  has  not  some  anxiety  on  its 
mind  ?  who  knows  whether  it  may  not  be  look- 
ing for  some  Paris  where  it  has  a  brother?  It 
goes  very  fast.  I  pause  to  watch  its  way ; 
there  it  is  beyond  this  page  ;  how  far  it  has 
got  !  I  hardly  see  it,  I  see  it  no  more  !  A 
good  journey  to  thee,  little  creature  ;  may  God 
conduct  thee  whither  thou  would'st  go  1  Shall 
we  ever  meet  again  ?  Have  I  frightened  thee  ? 
I  am,  no  doubt,  so  large  in  thy  eyes  ;  but  per- 
vol.  1.  —  9 


130  Journal  of 

haps,  for  that  very  reason.  I  escape  thee  like 
an  immensity.  My  little  insect  might  lead  me 
very  far ;  I  stop  at  and  rest  in  this  thought, 
that  thus  I  too  am  in  the  eyes  of  God  a  little, 
an  infinitely  little  creature  that   He  loves. 

Every  evening  I  read  some  of  Lamartine's 
4  Harmonies.1  I  learn  bits  of  them  by  heart,  and 
this  study  charms  me  and  causes  a  something 
to  spring  up  in  my  soul  which  transports  me 
far  from  the  book,  which  drops  from  my  hand, 
—  far  from  those  who  speak  around  me  ;  I  find 
myself  then  where  dwell  those  spirits  that  bal- 
ance the  stars  over  cur  heads  and  live  on  fire 
as  we  do  on  air. 

I  shall  always  be  sorry  not  to  have  written 
my  '  Infantines  ;  '  but  to  do  so,  I  should  have 
required  to  be  as  quiet  in  my  own  room  as  a 
bee  in  its  hive.  Sometimes  I  have  found  myself 
wishing  to  be  in  prison  in  order  to  give  myself 
up  to  study  and  poetry.  Oh,  what  enjoyment 
to  be  free  from  distraction,  with  God  and  with 
one's  self, —  with  that  in  us  which  thinks,  feels, 
loves,  and  suffers. 

1  '^tli.  —  We  have  M.  Bories  here  to-day,  our 
Cure,  the  Faciens,  and  some  other  people.  I 
leave  them  all  playing  games,  and  steal  away 
to  speak  to  thee  for  a  moment  about  my  day. 
It  has   been   one   of  those    that    I    take  note   of, 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  131 

that  charm  me  by  a  beautiful  sky  and  welcome 
events.  In  the  first  place,  while  rising  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  our  friend  in  Brittany, 
whom  I  had  believed  dead.  What  pleasure  I 
received  from  that  handwriting,  those  expres- 
sions of  pure  attachment,  that  expansiveness  of 
a  sad  and  pious  spirit  !  Poor  friend  !  in  what 
a  state  of  dejection  I  find  him.  I  would  fain 
console  him,  do  him  good.  He  speaks  of 
poetry  as  a  balm  ;  I  must  send  him  some.  I 
am  very  busy,  but  the  care  of  the  sick  takes 
precedence  of  all  else.  The  good  God  blesses 
this  good  work.  Let  us  then  see  what  is  left 
of  poetry  within  me.  I  am  afraid  it  must  have 
all  gone  out,  so  long  have  I  left  it  to  die. 
Nothing  but  this  poor  sufferer  would  have 
been  capable  of  rekindling  it.  I  already  feel 
a  something  reviving  within  which  will  soon 
gush  out.  I  got  this  letter  from  the  hands  of 
Pouffe,  who  looked  to  me  like  one  of  those 
dwarfs  one  reads  of  charged  with  secret  embas- 
sies to  castles.  A  "  thank  you  "  to  my  humpback 
—  and  then  I  am  on  the  hill-side  of  Sept-Fonts, 
reading  my  beautiful  letter  !  There  I  mused 
over  these  words  coming  from  the  ocean  shore 
to  the  Cayla  woods  ;  upon  that  stranger  soul 
speaking  to  mine  as  a  sister  would  to  a  sister  ; 
upon  what  brought  about  our  correspondence, 


1 3 2  Journal  of 

upon  Brittany,  La  Chenaie  and  its  distinguished 
recluse,  upon  thee,  poor  Marie,  and  her  grave. 
There  I  cheeked  myself  by  a  pious  thought  : 
that  I  ought  to  pray  fur  her;  and  I  prayed. 
Then  as  I  went  away  I  gathered  some  flowers 
fur  our  altar  to  the  Virgin,  and  listened  to  the 
nightingale,  equally  interpenetrated  with  these 
sad  thoughts,  and  with  the  laughing  nature 
around,  —  perpetual  contrast,  alas  !  of  human 
thing 

[No  date. ~\ — While  carrying  on  some  calcu- 
lations just  now,  I  wanted  to  know  the  number 
of  my  minutes.  It  is  awful,  —  [68  millions  and 
some  thousands.1  Already  so  much  time  in  my 
life  !  I  can  better  understand  its  whole  rapidity 
when  I  measure  it  thus  out  by  decrees.  The 
tarn  does  not  more  swiftly  accumulate  the  sand 
on  its  banks.  My  God  !  what  have  we  done 
with  these  moments  that  Thou  also  art  one  day 
to  number.'  Will  there  be  found  any  that  count 
with  regard  to  eternal  life  )  will  there  be  found 
many  such  -  will  there  be  found  a  single  one  .-  Si 

observaveris,  Domine,  Domine,  quis  suslinebU) 

This  examination  of  time  makes  the  soul  that 
engages  in  it  tremble,  however  short  a  space  it 
may  have  lived,  for  God  will  judge  us  differently 

1    She  makes  .t  mistake,  and  puts  a  zero  too  much  :   lut 

this  is  scarce  worth  remarking. 


Eugenie  de  G  iter  in.  133 

to  the  flowers  of  the  field.  I  could  never  un- 
derstand the  security  of  those  who  have  nothing 
to  depend  upon  in  appearing  before  God,  except 
good  conduct  in  human  relations,  as  though  all 
our  duties  were  included  within  the  narrow  cir- 
cle of  this  world.  To  be  a  good  father,  good 
son,  good  citizen,  good  brother,  does  not  suffice 
to  make  us  enter  heaven.  God  requires  other 
merits  than  these  sweet  heart-virtues  from  one 
whom  He  designs  to  crown  with  a  glorious 
eternity. 


134  Jour im/  of 


IV. 

TT  is  here,  mv  friend,  that  I  intend  to  return  to 
■  that  intimate  correspondence  which  pleases 
and  is  necessary  to  us:  to  thee  in  the  world. 
to  me  in  my  solitude.  I  am  sorry  not  to  have 
continued  it,  now  that  I  have  rend  your  letter. 
in  which  you  tell  me  why  it  was  you  did  not 
reply.  I  was  afraid  of  wearying  you  by  the 
details  of  my  life,  and  1  see  that  it  was  quite 
otherwise.  No  more  anxiety,  then,  on  that 
head  ;  no  more  doubts  about  thy  affection  or  any- 
thing else  in  thy  truly  fraternal  heart.  It  was  I 
that  was  wrong:  so  much  the  better;  I  was 
afraid  it  was  you.  Let  us,  then,  in  all  joy  and 
freedom,  resume  our  conversation  —  that  secret, 
confidential,  strictly  private  intercourse,  which 
stops  short  at  the  least  sound,  the  least  -lance. 
The  heart  does  not  approve  of  being  overheard 
in  its  confidences.  You  are  right  to  say  that  I 
have  to  plot  and  contrive  a  little  in  writing  mv 
books  ;    I    haw  indeed  read  some  parts  of  them 

to  Papa,  but  not  all.     The  good  father  might, 

perhaps,  be  made  a  little  anxious  by  what  I  say, 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  135 

by  what  sometimes  crosses  my  soul  ;  an  air  of 
sadness  would  seem  to  him  a  sorrow.  Let  us 
hide  these  little  clouds  from  him  :  it  is  not  well 
that  he  should  see  them,  or  know  anything 
of  me  but  my  calm,  serene  side.  A  daughter 
should  be  so  sweet  a  thing  to  a  father  !  We 
ought  to  be  with  regard  to  parents  much  what 
the  angels  are  to  God.  It  is  different  between 
brothers  and  sisters  :  here  there  is  less  respect 
and  more  freedom.  For  thee,  then,  the  course 
of  my  heart  and  life  just  as  it  occurs. 

2nd. — Two  letters  from  Louise,  graceful, 
tender,  but  sad.  My  poor  friend  is  surrounded 
by  deaths,  and  mourns  a  neighbour,  the  mother 
of  MtManie,  of  whom  I  have,  I  think,  written 
to  you.  She  is  the  poor  mountaineer  who  has 
been  taken  out  of  the  fields  to  be  dressed  like 
a  young  lady,  and  brought  up  at  Toulouse, 
where  she  sees  the  ladies  of  Villele.  Her  edu- 
cation takes  well,  and  the  young  lady  is  being 
most  successfully  engrafted  on  the  rustic.  There 
will  be  two  lives  in  her  life.  She  interests  me, 
especially  now  that  the  poor  orphan  is  weeping 
for  her  mother,  and  grieving  in  her  grand  saloons 
that  she  could  not  have  been  beside  that  poor 
mother's  bed.  Louise  tells  me  that  she  will  not 
return  to  Rayssac,  where  she  has  no  longer  any 
ties,  but  will  go  into  a  convent.     That  is  the 


journal  of 

true  home  <>f  sad  spirits,  of  such  as  arc  strangers 
in  the  world,  or  who  arc  timid,  and  take  shelter 
there  as  in  a  dovecot. 

;r./.  —  The  nightingale  sings,  the  sky  is  clear, 

—  both  novelties  this  late  spring.  This  might 
well  give  rise  to  a  word  or  two,  but  I  leave 
thee  for  useful  avocations.  This  is  only  a 
pastime  ;  for  a  woman  a  pen  is  but  the  heart's 
plaything.     With  you  men  it  is  different. 

4//?.  —  Nothing  but  the  date.  I  have  not  been 
able  to  write,  having  spent  the  day  at  Cahuzac, 

—  a  poor  spot,  which,  moreover,  gives  but  little 
to  say. 

tfih. —  Rain,  cold  wind,  winter  sky;  the 
nightingale  singing  from  time  to  time  below  dead 
leaves.  Sad  this,  in  the  month  of  May  !  Accord- 
ingly, I  am  internally  sad  in  spite  of  myself.  1 
regret  that  my  soul  should  be  so  much  affected 
by  the  state  of  the  atmosphere  and  the  seasons, 
that  like  a  flower  it  should  thus  close  against 
the  cold  and  open  to  the  sun.  I  do  not  under- 
stand it  ;  but  so  it  must  be,  I  suppose,  so  long 
as  it  is  enclosed  in  this  poor  earthen  vessel  of  a 
body.  To  amuse  me,  I  hive  been  turning  over 
Lamartine,  that  loved  poet.  I  am  fond  of  the 
llvmn  to  the  Nightingale,  and  of  many  other 
of  h:s  '  I  [armonies  ;  '  but  how  far  removed  this  is 
from  the  effect  produced  upon  me  by  his  '  Med- 


Eugenic  de  Guerin.  137 

itations  1 '  What  transports,  ecstasies,  then,  to  be 
sure  !  I  was  sixteen  :  how  glorious  it  was  ! 
Time  changes  many  things.  The  great  poet  no 
longer  thrills  my  heart ;  to-day  he  has  even 
failed  to  amuse  me. 

Let  us  try  something  else,  then,  for  we  must 
not  tolerate  this  dejection  which  gnaws  the 
soul.  I  compare  it  to  those  little  worms  which 
lodge  themselves  in  the  wood  of  chairs  and 
furniture  generally,  which  I  sometimes  hear 
crack  in  my  room,  when  they  are  at  work  redu- 
cing their  abode  to  powder.  What,  then,  shall 
I  do  ?  for  it  is  not  good  for  me  to  write  and  to 
pour  out  mere  turbidity.  Let  the  vessel  settle 
first,  and  then  the  water  may  flow  —  not  before. 
I  throw  away  books  and  pens  ;  I  know  some- 
thing more  effectual  ;  I  have  made  proof  of  it  a 
hundred  times.  It  is  prayer  —  prayer  that 
calms  me.  When,  in  the  presence  of  God,  I 
say  to  my  soul,  "  Why  art  thou  sorrowful,  and 
why  art  thou  disquieted  within  me  ?"  something 
—  I  know  not  what  —  responds,  and  gradually 
calms  it  down  like  a  crying  child  when  it  sees 
its  mother.  This  is  because  the  Divine  com- 
passion and  tenderness  are  indeed  quite  maternal 
towards  us. 

bth. — John  of  Damascus  had  been  forbidden 
to  write  to  any  one,  and,  because  he  had  made 


ijs  pit) mil  of 

some  verses  for  a  friend,  he  was  expelled  from 
his  convent.  This  seemed  to  me  very  severe  ; 
but  how  much  wisdom  one  descries  in  it.  when, 
the  saint  being  pardoned,  after  much  suppli 
tion  and  humil'ity,  we  see  him  ordered  to  write 
and  to  employ  his  talents  in  combating  the  ene- 
mies of  Jesus  Christ  !  He  was  considered 
strong  enough  to  enter  the  arena  so  soon  as  he 
was  stripped  of  pride.  He  wrote  against  the 
iconoclasts.  Oh,  if  many  distinguished  writers 
had  but  begun  by  a  lesson  of  humility,  they 
would  not  have  made  so  many  errors  or  so  many 
books.  Pride  gives  birth  to  numbers  :  hence  see 
the  fruits  they  produce.  Into  how  many  errors 
the  erring  lead  us  ! 

But  this  is  too  extensive  a  subject  for  me, 
this  chapter  of  the  science  of  evil.  I  would 
rather  record  that  I  have  been  sewing  a  sheet, 
and  have  sewn  several  things  into  my  seam.  A 
sheet  is  favourable  to  meditation  :  how  many  it 
is  destined  to  cover,  and  what  different  kinds 
of  slumber  —  perhaps  that  of  the  grave  !  Who 
knows  whether  it  may  not  be  my  winding-sheet  - 
if  these  stitches  of  mine  may  not  be  unstitched 
by  the  worms  r  Meanwhile  Papa  was  telling 
me  that  he  had,  unknown  to  me.  sent  a  poem  "I 
mine  to  RaySSaC,  and  I  have  seen  the  letter  in 
which    M.    de    Bayne   spoke  of  it,   telling  him 


Eugenie  de  Gucrin.  139 

that  it  was  good.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a 
degree  of  vanity,  but  it  dropped  into  my  seam. 
And  now  I  say  to  myself  that  the  thought  of 
death  is  good  for  preserving  us  from  sin  :  it 
moderates  joy,  tempers  sadness,  makes  us  regard 
the  passing  as  already  past.  I  find  some  excel- 
lent meditations  on  this  subject  in  a  book  that 
I  have  just  been  getting  myself,  the  '  Retreat '  of 
Father  Judde.  How  I  delight  in  this  book, 
and  how  much  obliged  I  am  to  the  one  who 
introduced  it  to  me  1 

jth.  —  I  don't  know  what  came  to  turn  me 
away  yesterday,  when  I  wanted  to  tell  thee  of 
my  little  library,  of  the  books  I  have,  and  those 
I  should  like  to  have.  I  want  Saint  Theresa, 
those  most  spiritual  of  pious  letters.  I  saw 
them  in  the  possession  of  a  servant,  poor  girl  1 
But  who  knows  ?  perhaps  she  can  comprehend 
them  better  than  I.  Holy  things  come  within 
the  reach  of  the  heart  and  of  every  pious  intel- 
lect. I  have  very  often  observed  this,  and  that 
a  person  who  seems  simple  and  ignorant  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world  is  marvellously  well-versed  in 
intellectual  matters  and  in  the  things  of  God. 
I  know  many  clever  people  who  are  stupid 
here  :  two  gentlemen,  for  instance,  who  would 
not  allow  that  God  was  good,  because  He  gave 
us  restraining  laws,  because  there  was  a  hell. 


140  Journal  of 

They  considered  the  observance  of  fasting  and 
the  belief  in  original  sin  absurd,  and  the  vener- 
ation of  images  thoroughly  ridiculous.  Poor 
people  !  how  many  such  there  are  who  pretend 
to  be  wise  on  sacred  subjects,  holy  hieroglyph- 
ics that  they  read  without  understanding  and 
then   call   follies  ! 

Our  country  people  are  actually  getting  as 
bad  ;  one  of  them  quoted  the  Council  of  Trent 
to  our  Cure,  in  a  case  where  his  learning  ill 
became  him.  To  venture  to  interpret  the  Coun- 
cils, and  not  say  the  Pater,  how  lamentable  ! 
This  is  to  what  science  leads  in  our  country 
districts  —  the  science  of  the  alphabet;  for  it 
is  because  it  knows  how  to  read  that  the  people 
believes  itself  learned.  Mounted  on  its  pedes- 
tal of  pride,  it  meddles  with  the  highest  matters, 
and  Considers  as  within  its  reach  what  it  ought 
to  contemplate  on  its  knees.  It  is  bent  on  see- 
ing, comprehending,  grasping,  and  walks  boldly 
on  to  unbelief.  It  requires  to  have  its  faith 
proved  to  it  now-a-days  :  whereas  formerly  it 
believed  everything.  Our  peasants  hive  lost 
much  by  coming  into  contact  with  books;  and 
what   have   the  tied  but  an  additional   igno- 

rance—  that  of   their  duty  f"     One   cannot  but 

•ve  over  these    poor   people.      It   would   be 
better  that  they  should  not  know  how  to  read, 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  141 

unless  they  were  at  the  same  time  taught  what 
reading  was  profitable.  In  the  mountains  at 
Rayssac  they  all  read  ;  but  then  it  is  the  cate- 
chism, missals,  or  devotional  books.  That  is 
the  proper  end  of  schools,  and  the  thing  that 
should  be  taught  in  them  is  religion,  the  mak- 
ing good  Christians.  At  Andillac  and  else- 
where they  learn  to  write  their  names,  and  say 
Qud  sony  sapian ! 

But  this  digression  has  led  me  far  from  the 
books  I  was  speaking  of.  My  collection  grows: 
every  now  and  then  I  get  myself  something. 
I  brought  back  from  Alby  the  new  '  Month  of 
Mary/  by  Abbe  Le  Guillou,  — a  sweet,  tender 
book,  all  full  of  flowers  and  devotion.  I  read 
some  of  it  every  morning.  We  keep  the  month 
of  Mary  in  our  room  before  a  beautiful  image 
of  the  Virgin  that  Francoise  has  given  to  Mimi. 
Above  it  there  is  a  framed  Christ  which  be- 
longed to  our  grandmother ;  higher  up  Saint 
Theresa,  and  higher  up  still  that  little  picture 
of  the  Annunciation  that  you  are  familiar  with  ; 
so  that  the  eye  follows  a  whole  heavenly  series 
as  soon  as  it  is  raised  and  fixed.  It  is  a  ladder 
that  leads  to  heaven. 

5M. —  What  have  I  to  tell  thee  now?  that  it 
rains,  that  the  sky  positively  refuses  to  smile  on 
us.     May  will  pass  away,  I  fear,  without  sun, 


i 42  Journal  of 

without  flowers,  without  verdure.  Our  woods 
are  bare  and  dry,  as  in  winter.  The  nightingale 
sometimes  sings  in  them  in  a  melancholy  kind 
of  way,  and  I  pity  him  for  having  no  shelter. 
It  is  calamitous  weather  :  everything  suffers. 
The  air  is  unwholesome  :  one  hears  tell  of 
nothing  but  the  dead  and  the  dying.  The  in- 
fluenza  makes  sad  ravages  :  it  is  another  cholera, 
which  almost  decimates  the  population  in  cer- 
tain places.  At  Toulouse  as  many  as  sixty 
people  have  died  in  a  day.  Here  nothing  has 
befallen  either  us  or  our  servants  :  happy  that 
we  are  to  be  so  far  from  towns  and  their  infec- 
tion !  If  we  must  perforce  go  without  many 
things,  those  that  we  do  enjoy  are  very  sweet, 
and  I  bless  God  for  them  every  day  ;  every  day 
consider  myself  happy  to  have  woods,  streams, 
meadows,  sheep,  hens  that  lay.  —  to  live,  in  short, 
in  my  pretty,  tranquil  Cayla,  with  a  family  that 
loves  me.  What  is  there  sweeter  in  the  world  } 
Nothing,  indeed,  is  wanting  to  us  but  thee, 
dear  absent  member,  for  which  the  body  pines. 
When  shall  we  have  thee  r  Nothing  seems  to 
shape  itself  for  this,  and  so  we  shall  have  to 
spend  our  lives  without  meeting  !  This  is  sad  ; 
but  let  us  resign  ourselves  to  whatever  God 
wills  or  permits.  One  day  we  shall  know 
everything  ;  one  day  1   shall  lind  out  why  we 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  143 

were  separated,  we  two,  who  would  fain  have 
been  together.  Let  us  draw  near,  my  friend  — 
draw  near,  at  least  in  heart  and  thought,  by 
writing  to  each  other.  These  communications 
are  very  sweet  ;  these  outbursts  relieve,  nay, 
purify,  the  soul,  just  as  the  running  of  water 
carries  away  its  mud. 

As  for  me,  I  am  better  whenever  I  have 
allowed  myself  to  flow  out  here.  I  say  here, 
because  I  just  note  down  my  innermost,  with- 
out being  over-particular  as  to  what  it  may  be, 
sometimes  even  without  knowing  it.  There  are 
times  when  what  goes  on  within  me  is  a  mys- 
tery to  myself,  —  ignorance  this,  doubtless,  of 
human  nature.  I  have  seen  so  little,  known 
so  little,  whether  of  good  or  evil !  But  for  all 
that  I  am  not  a  child.  I  am  very  fond  of  writ- 
ing to  Louise,  but  it  is  not  the  same  as  to  thee  ; 
besides,  my  letters  to  her  are  seen,  and  the  heart 
is  not  a  book  one  likes  to  throw  open  to  the 
public.  Thanks,  then,  for  liking  my  correspond- 
ence, for  giving  me  the  innocent  sisterly  delight 
of  telling  thee  very  often  that  I  love  thee  with 
that  vivid,  tender,  pure  affection  which  springs 
from  charity.  It  is  thus  that  we  truly  love  each 
other  ;  thus  that  Jesus  Christ  has  loved  us,  and 
wills  that  we  should  love  our  brethren. 

()th  —  A  day  spent  in  spreading  out  a  large 


144  Journal  of 

wash,  leaves  little  to  sav  ;  and  yet  it  is  rather 
pretty,  too.  to  lay  out  white  linen  on  the  grass, 
or  to  see  it  float  on  lines.  One  may  fancy  one's 
self  Homer's  Nausicaa,  or  one  of  those  Biblical 
princesses  who  washed  their  brothers'  tunics. 
We  have  a  basin  at  Moulmasse  that  you  have 
not  seen,  sufficiently  large  and  full  of  water, 
which  embellishes  that  hollow,  and  attracts  the 
birds,  who  like  a  cool  place  to  sing  in. 

OurCayla  is  very  much  changed,  and  changes 
every  day.     You  will  no  longer   see  the  white 

eon-house  on  the  hill-side,  nor  the  little  ter- 
race-door, nor  the  corridor  and  the  fenestroun, 
where  we  used  to  measure  our  respective  heights 
when  we  were  children.  All  these  have  disap- 
peared and  made  room  fur  large  windows  and 
large  rooms.  These  new  things  are  prettier ; 
but  why  is  it  that  I  regret  the  old,  and  keep 
replacing  in  memory  the  doors  removed,  the 
stones  fallen  -  My  feet  even  cannot  accustom 
themselves  to  the  new  steps  ;  they  go  on  with 
their  old  habits,  and  trip  and  stumble  where 
they  have  not  trod  when  little  feet.  Whose  will 
be  the  first  coffin  that  will  pass  through  these 
new  doors  ?  Whether  ancient  or  modern,  all 
doors  have  space  enough  for  that,  as  every  nest 
has  its  aperture.  This  it  is  which  disenchants  us 
of  these  dwellings  of  a  day.  and   makes   us   lift 


Eugenie  de  Gi/erin.  145 

our  eyes  to  that  house  not  made  by  human 
hands. 

A  letter  from  Marie  has  just  reached  us.  I 
always  note  a  letter  as  I  do  the  arrival  of  a 
friend.  Marie's  are  charming,  quite  full  of  news 
and  the  little  things  of  the  day.  This  morning 
she  announced  to  us  the  arrival  of  M.  Vialar, 
the  African,  and  that  of  an  Arab  prince,  —  strik- 
ing facts  in  this  country,  and  for  those  who  can 
see  things  in  men.  How  much  an  African  has 
to  show  to  Gaillac,  and  an  inhabitant  of  Gaillac 
to  Africa  !  Providence,  that  orders  everything, 
has  not,  we  may  be  sure,  made  these  two  men 
meet  for  nothing,  or  led  the  Arab  out  of  his 
desert  to  show  him  France,  our  civilization,  our 
arts,  our  manners,  our  beautiful  cathedrals. 

10th.  —  A  letter  written  to  Louise,  my  prayers, 
household  avocations,  — there  you  have  my 
day.  As  I  was  taking  down  a  large  caldron 
from  the  fire,  Papa  told  me  that  he  did  not  like 
to  see  me  doing  such  things  ;  but  I  thought  of 
Saint  Bonaventure.  who  was  washing  the  pots 
and  pans  of  his  convent  when  they  went  to  offer 
him,  I  think,  a  cardinal's  hat.  In  this  world 
nothing  that  is  low,  sin  excepted,  can  degrade 
us  in  the  eyes  of  God.  And  so  my  caldron 
gave  rise  to  a  salutary  reflection  which  will  save 
me  from  disquiet  in  doing  certain  disgusting 
vol.  1  — 10 


146  journal  of 

things,  such  as  blackening  my  hands  in  the 
kitchen.  Good-night !  to-morrow  morning  I 
am  going  to  confession.  The  north  wind  has 
been  blowing  all  day  long;  our  labourers  were 
shivering  in  the  fields.  To  think  of  having 
winter  in  the  month  of  May  ! 

Since  yesterday  I  have  not  had  lime  to  sit 
down  and  write.  It  is  a  privation  to  me  not  to 
touch  my  pen,  just  as  it  is  to  a  musician  to  be  un- 
able to  touch  his  instrument.  The  pen  is  my 
lyre  ;  I  love  it  as  a  friend  ;  nothing  can  detach 
me  from  it.  There  is,  as  it  were,  a  magnetic 
attraction  betwixt  us. 

The  bark  to  the  billows  returns. 

To  her  mate  returns  the  dove; 
And  to  thee  I  return,  my  lyre, 

With  an  ever-constant  love. 

It  was  God  that  bestow'd  thee,  no  doubt, 
For  a  voice  to  my  heart  when  stiir'd, 

And  I  sing  out  to  Him  on  my  way, 
Just  as  sings  the  wandering  bird. 

I  blend  in  this  hymn  of  mine 

y  simple  villager's  song  ; 

1    arnei  the  music  that  's  made 
By  brooks  as  they  warble  along. 

I  list  t'i  the  Bounds  that  lie  down 
With  day  in  the  Solemn  woods, 

To  the  myriad-voiced  strain 

Of  the  thunder  and  the  tloods. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  147 

I  list  what  the  waking  infant 

By  a  smile  to  its  cradle  says, 
What  the  bee  to  the  rose  it  rifles, 

What  the  wind  to  the  forest  it  sways. 

I  list  what  in  church  the  organ 
Chants  to  God  in  its  mighty  peal, 

When  the  virgins  the  altar  surround, 
And  the  faithful  meekly  kneel. 

And  ye  Heaven-loving  souls,  to  you  too 

I  list  as  your  yearnings  arise, 
And  deem  that  I  find  a  holy  hymn 

In  each  of  your  secret  sighs. 

Poetry  would  go  on  apace  if  I  let  it  have  its 
own  way  ;  but  to-morrow  is  Whit-Sunday,  a 
solemn  festival  that  disposes  to  meditation,  that 
silences  the  soul  for  prayer  and  supplication  for 
the  Holy  Spirit,  the  spirit  of  love  and  under- 
standing which  makes  us  know  and  love  God. 
I  am  going  therefore  to  shut  myself  into  my 
"  guest-chamber,"  my  little  room,  and  to  ex- 
clude all  without  if  possible.  But  still,  I  keep 
thinking  of  thee,  poor  wanderer  in  the  world. 
If  you  could  but  know  how  I  long  to  have  you 
with  us  !  May  God  be  pleased  to  bring  thee 
some  day,  to  restore  thee  to  the  society  of  thy 
own  family  ! 

\}th.  —  I  come  back  here  on  Whit-Monday, 
without  dwelling  on  yesterday,  grand  and  divine 


148  Journal  of 

as  it  \\;is.  Let  us  chat  a  little  about  the  present 
moment,  while  I  make  Miou,  my  pupil,  read  to 
me.  I  lend  her  my  ear,  but  my  heart  is  here, 
although  I  am  often  interrupted  by  having  to 
correct  her.  This  child's  mind  is  slow  and 
supine,  so  that  one  must  be  continually  by  to 
stimulate  her.  Patience  and  perseverance  ;  with 
these  something  may  be  made  of  Miou,  not, 
indeed,  a  cultivated  intellect,  but  a  Christian 
mind,  which  knows  why  God  has  placed  her  in 
the  world.  Poor  little  thing  !  a  short  time  a 
she  had  no  notion  why.  How  ignorant  we  are, 
how  ignorant  we  all  are  to  begin  with  !  At  the 
age  of  ten  a  Lamennais  would  have  known 
nothing  more  than  Miou  does,  if  he  had  not 
been  better  taught.  So  it  seems  to  me  ;  as 
though  our  intelligence  only  developed  by  in- 
struction, just  as  wood  only  kindles  by  contact 
with  the  lire. 

I  nil  rather  fond  of  teaching  little  children, 
and  of  making  them  say  their  catechism.  It  is 
a  pleasure,  and  even  a  duty,  to  instruct  these 
poor  Christians.  We  may  continually  act  the 
part  of  missionaries  in  our  country  districts; 
and  I  doubt  that  the  savages  themselves  can 
know  less  in  the  matter  of  religion  than  certain 
of  our  peasants.  Our  cook,  Marianne,  con- 
fused  cochons     pigs)   with   the  commandments; 


Eugenie  de  Giierin.  149 

another  thought  that  to  work  out  one's  salva- 
tion (scilul)  was  to  salute  one's  self ;  and  a  hun- 
dred other  pitiable  absurdities.  But  God  is 
merciful,  and  it  is  not  exactly  ignorance  that 
He  will  punish.  We  ought  to  be  far  more 
alarmed  about  men  of  genius  who  go  astray, 
about  those  who  know  the  law  and  will  not 
keep  it,  about  those  blind  ones  who  close  their 
eyes  against  the  daylight.  Oh,  how  all  these 
move  me  to  compassion  !  how  much  to  be  pitied 
they  are  !  One  sees  their  fate  in  the  parable 
of  the  vine  and  the  barren  fig-tree.  I  would 
write   it  out,  but  you  know  it. 

A  distress  !  we  have  got  Trilby  sick,  so  sick 
that  the  poor  beast  will  die.  I  am  fond  of  my 
little  dog,  she  was  so  pretty.  I  remember,  too, 
that  you  used  to  be  fond  of  her,  and  to  caress 
her,  calling  her  little  rogue.  All  sorts  of  mem- 
ories link  themselves  with  Trilbette,  and  make 
me  regret  her.  Small  and  great  affections,  — 
everything  in  turn,  leaves  us  and  dies.  The  heart 
is  like  a  tree  hung  round  with  dead  leaves. 

The  pastor  has  been  to  see  us.  I  have  not 
told  you  very  much  about  him.  He  is  a  worthy, 
simple  man,  well  acquainted  with  his  duties, 
speaking  about  God  better  than  about  the 
world,  of  which  he  knows  but  little.  Accord- 
ingly, he  does  not  shine  in  society  ;   his  conver- 


150  Journal  of 

sation  is  commonplace,  and  makes  those  who 
do  not  understand  a  priestly  mind  think  that  he 
has  but  little.  He  does  good  in  the  parish  ;  his 
gentleness  wins  hearts.  I  le  is  our  father  just  now. 
I  find  him  young  after  M.  Bories.  I  miss  that 
energetic  powerful  preaching  that  sustained  me; 
but  it  is  God  that  lias  taken  it  away,  and  He 
knows  why.      Let  me  submit  and  walk  on  like 

hild,  without  looking  at  the  hand  that  leads 
me.  Meanwhile  I  am  not  to  be  pitied  ;  he 
preaches  well,  very  well  for  calm  natures. 
Never  has  Andillac  known  so  gentle  an  elo- 
quence ;  he  is  the  Massillon  of  the  country. 
But  God  alone  can  still  the  agitations  of  the 
soul.  If  you  had  been  a  priest  you  would 
have  known  them,  and  I  should  have  asked 
counsel  from  you  ;  but  I  can  say  nothing  to 
Maurice.  Ah!  poor  friend!  how  I  regret  this! 
how  fain  would  I  pass  from  the  confidence  of 
the  heart  to  that  of  the  soul.  There  would  be 
something  very  spiritually  sweet  in  such  an  out- 
pouring. The  mother  of  Saint  Francois  de  Sales 
used  to  confess  to  her  son  ;  sisters  have  con- 
ed to  their  brothers.  It  is  beautiful  to  see 
nature  thus  losing  itself  in 

I    have  just    had  a    young    pigeon   brought  me, 

which  I  mean  to  keep  and  tame  and  caress  ;  it 
will  be  a  substitute  for  Trilby.     This  poor  heart 


Eugenie  de  Guer/'u.  151 

of  mine  must  always  have  something  to  love  ; 
when  it  loses  one  object  it  takes  up  another. 
I  notice  this,  and  that  we  go  on  loving  without 
interruption,  which  proves  our  destination  to 
eternal  love.  Nothing  better  enables  me  .  .  . 
Papa  came  to  cut  short  the  words  on  my 
tongue.  I  begin  again.  Nothing  better  enables 
me  to  understand  heaven  than  to  picture  it  to 
myself  as  the  home  of  love  ;  for  if  here  below 
we  cannot  love  for  a  moment  even  without 
happiness,  what  will  it  be   to  love  for  ever ! 

16th. —  I  have  just  made  a  discovery.  In 
turning  over  an  old  book  of  devotion,  the 
'  Guardian  Angel/  I  found  those  litanies  to 
Providence  that  Rousseau,  we  are  told,  was  so 
fond  of  ;  and  those  too  to  the  child  Jesus,  sim- 
ple and  sublime  as  was  that  divine  childhood.  I 
have  been  particularly  struck  with  these:  " Child 
that  weepest  in  the  cradle,  Child  that  thunder- 
est  out  of  heaven,  Child  that  restored  the  grace 
of  the  earth,  Child  that  art  chief  of  angels," 
and  numberless  other  touching  designations  and 
invocations.  If  I  ever  execute  a  certain  project 
that  I  have,  these  litanies  shall  come  under  the 
eyes  of  children.  My  pigeon  keeps  flying  over 
me  and  whining  so  tenderly  to  be  put  into  its 
nest  that  I  leave  thee. 

ijth.  —  A  fine  sunrising  makes  us  hope  for  a 


1 52  Journal  0/ 

fine  day,  a  rare  thin-  this  May.  Never  was 
there  a  colder,  sadder,  more  barren  spring.  It 
does  larm  to  everything  ;  neither  chickens  nor 
flowers  get  born,  nor  cheerful  thoughts  cither. 

Early  to-day  I  went  to  Vieux,  to  visit  the 
relics  of  the  saints,  and  more  especially  those 
of  Saint  Eugenius,  my  patron.  You  are  aware 
that  this  holy  bishop  was  exiled  from  Carthage 
into  Gaul  by  an  Arian  prince,  lie  came  first 
to  Alby,  thence  to  Vieux,  where  he  built  a 
monastery,  in  which  a  great  many  saints  assem- 
bled, and  which  is  now  the  Mill  of  Latour. 
I   wish   that  all   who  come   to  have   their    corn 

und  there  were  aware  of  the  sacred  venera- 
tion due  to  the  place,  but  the  majority  are 
ignorant  of  it.  Indeed,  people  no  longer  know 
why  it  is  that  processions  should  be  made  to 
Vieux.  of  all  the  parishes  in  the  country.  I 
explained  it  to  Miou.  who  accompanied  me, 
and  who  perhaps  understands  now  what  relics 
mean,  and  what  is  done  in  presence  of  the 
pavilions   where  they  are   exhibited. 

I  like  these  pilgrimages,  remnants  of  a  former 
faith,  but  the  time  for  such  things  seems  nearly 
over  now  ;  the  spirit  of  them  is,  generally 
speaking,  extinct.  People  used  to  go  to  Vieux 
.in-  ;  now  it  is  a  mere  promenade.  And 
vet,  if  Monsieur  the  Cure  omit  this  procession, 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  153 

he  will  be  held  to  have  brought  down  what- 
ever hail  falls.  Where  faith  disappears,  cre- 
dulity abounds.  We  have,  however,  some  good 
souls  who  are  well  worthy  of  the  saint's  ap- 
probation, such  as  Rose  Drouille,  the  Durelle 
who  knows  how  to  meditate,  who  has  learned 
so  much  over  her  rosary  ;  and  then,  too,  Fran- 
coise  de  Gaillard  and  her  daughter  Jacquette, 
so  attentive  and  devout  in  church. 

This  pious  escort,  however,  did  not  accom- 
pany me  ;  I  was  alone,  with  my  good  angel 
and  Miou.  Having  heard  the  mass,  and  said 
my  prayers,  I  came  away  with  one  hope  more. 
I  had  gone  there  to  ask  something  from  Saint 
Eugene  ;  the  saints  are  our  brothers.  If  thou 
wert  all  powerful,  would'st  thou  not  grant  me 
what  I  requested  of  thee  ?  It  was  of  this  I 
thought  while  invoking  Saint  Eugene,  who  is, 
moreover,  my  patron.  We  have  so  little  in  this 
world,  at  least  let  us  hope  in  the  other. 

2o//?.  —Three  letters  have  arrived, —one  from 
Euphrasie,  one  from  Antoinette,  and  a  very  sad 
one  from  Felicite.  And  so  you  are  ill,  poor 
Maurice  !  that  was  why  you  did  not  write  to  us. 
My  God  !  what  would  I  give  to  be  there  close 
beside  thee,  —to  see,  to  touch,  to  nurse  thee  ! 
Thou  art  well  cared  for.  no  doubt,  but  thou 
must  need  a  sister.     I  know  it,  I  feel  it.     If  ever 


154  Journal  oj 

I  have  desired  to  be  with  thee,  surely  it  is  now. 
Must  it  always  be  some  misfortune  that  brings 
thee?  <>ncc  the  Revolution,  then  the  cholera, 
now  thy  illness  !  Would  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing be  else  too  sweet  r  God  will  allow  no 
perfect  happiness  in  this  world.  All  these  last 
days  I  had  been  thinking,  "  If  Maurice  were  to 
come  here  during  the  vacation,  what  delight! 
how  happy  Papa  would  be  !  "  And  now  all  this 
happiness  is  lost  in  an  illness  !  But  only  come, 
come  quickly  ;  the  air  of  Cayla,  asses'  milk, 
and  rest  will  cure  thee.  I  am  sorry  not  to  have 
answered  thee  ;  I  shall  have  perhaps  been  the 
cause  of  sad  thoughts  which  may  have  done  you 
harm.  You  will  have  supposed  that  I  no  longer 
meant  to  write,  no  longer  cared  for  your  affection. 
I  wrote  to  you  here  every  day,  but  I  wanted  to 
give  you  time  to  long  for  a  letter  ;  that  delay 
would  I  thought  make  you  reply  sooner  another 
time.  But  a  truce  to  all  that  !  let  us  not  speak 
of  the  past  ;  we  are  going  to  see  and  hear  each 
other,  and  everything  will  be  explained. 

22nd. —  No  writing  yesterday.  The  whole 
of  Sunday  gets  spent  in  church  or  on  the  road. 
In  the  evening  I  am  tired  ;  it  was  with  ditliculty 
that  I  read  alter  supper  a  little  of  the  '  History 
of  the  Church  :  '  but  for  all  that  I  thought 
much  of  thee,  God  knows.     I  have  asked  Rose 


Eugenic  de  Guerin.  155 

to  pray  for  thee.  She  has  promised  to  do  so. 
This  has  comforted  me  ;  and  ever  since  I  am 
more  tranquil,  because  I  believe  prayer  to  be 
all  powerful.  I  know  a  proof  of  it  in  the  case 
of  a  little  child  suddenly  restored  from  total 
blindness.  It  is  a  pretty  story,  and  I  must  tell 
it  thee.  There  was  at  Ouillas,  in  one  of  our 
mountain  convents,  a  young  girl  as  pupil,  who 
was  so  pious,  so  sweet,  so  innocent,  that  every 
one  loved  and  revered  her  like  an  angel.  They 
say  that  her  confessor,  M.  Chabbert,  whom  we 
had  once  for  cure,  found  her  so  pure  that  he 
admitted  her  to  her  first  communion  without 
giving  her  absolution.  She  died  at  the  age  of 
fourteen,  held  in  such  love  and  veneration  by 
her  former  companions  that  they  daily  went  one 
after  the  other  to  visit  her  grave,  which  is  kept 
quite  white  with  lilies  in  the  season  of  flowers, 
and  to  ask  her  whatever  they  would  ;  and  more 
than  once  the  saint  granted  their  prayers.  For 
two  years  people  had  been  flocking  to  the 
cemetery,  when  a  poor  woman,  coming  to  pick 
up  wood  close  by,  with  her  little  blind  boy,  hap- 
pening to  call  to  mind  the  wonders  related  of 
Marie,  bethought  her  of  taking  her  child  to  the 
grave  and  imploring  his  cure.  This  was  pretty 
nearly  her  prayer :  — 

"  Little  Saint   Mary,  you  whom  I  have  seen 


iv  Journal  of 

so  good  and  compassionate,  hear  me  now  out 
of  Paradise  where  you  are  ;  restore  my  son's 
sight  ;  may  God    tyrant  me  this  mercy  through 

Hardly  were  the  words  uttered  when  the 
poor  mother,  still  on  her  knees,  hears  her  child 
exclaim  that  he  sees!  A  r,  mama,  U  bisi  I 
Scales  that  closed  up  his  eyes  fell  off:  the 
same  disease  had  covered  his  head,  so  that  not 
a  hair  was  to  be  seen.  and.  eight  days  after, 
the  poor  mother  was  showing  everybody  her 
child  with  beautiful  eyes  and  pretty  flaxen 
curls. 

I  heard  this  from  Mademoiselle  Carayon 
d'Alby.  who  had  seen  the  child  both  in  its  blind 
state  and  after  its  miraculous  cure.  It  is  a 
charming  Story,  in  which  I  fully  believe,  and 
which  almost  makes  me  loilj  i  to  Ouillas  to 

implore  also  a  something  that  I  should  pray  for 
with  the  whole  fervour  of  my  soul. 

I  expected  an  account  of  you  this  morning. 
Felicite  tells  us  that  you  were  to  have  written 
at  the  same  time  she  did  ;  but  no  letter  has 
come,  and  this  delay  makes  us  anxious.  Who 
knows-  perhaps  you  are  worse.  The  weather 
IS  not  in  your  favour;  always  cold  or  wet. 
How  I  shall  be  longing  for  it  to  become  line. 
spring  to  appear  and  the  air  to  be  mild. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  157 

Since  yesterday  I  have  made  many  weather- 
glasses. It  is  this  severe  winter,  this  cold, 
ungenial  air,  which  has  done  thee  harm. 

I  have  been  giving  a  good  scolding  to  my 
little  pupil,  who  is  often  disrespectful  to  her 
mother.  In  order  to  make  an  impression  upon 
her,  I  told  her  the  incident  of  ten  children 
cursed  by  their  mothers,  whom  Saint  Augustine 
had  seen  at  Hippo,  perpetually  trembling  and  in 
a  dreadful  state  altogether.  Miou  seemed  struck 
by  this  story  ;  perhaps  it  will  make  her  more  obe- 
dient, when  tempted  to  say  No  to  her  mother. 
I  remember  how  terrified  I  was  by  the  idea  of 
these  children  under  a  curse.  Disobedience  was 
man's  first  sin,  and  it  is  the  child's  earliest  fault ; 
he  takes  a  wicked  delight  in  everything  that  is 
forbidden  him.  We  all  inherit  this  feature  of 
our  first  parent.  It  was  only  the  Child  Jesus  of 
whom  it  could  be  truly  said  that  he  was  submis- 
sive and  obedient.  It  would  be  a  beautiful 
model  to  set  before  children,  that  of  the  divine 
childhood  with  all  its  virtues  and  graces,  illus- 
trated by  some  pious  Raphael.  I  have  very 
often  thought  of  this,  and  formed  my  group  of 
holy  children  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament  : 
Joseph,  Samuel,  John  the  Baptist,  led  into  the 
desert  at  the  age  of  three  ;  Cyril,  who  died  a 
martyr  at   five,    the   brother  of  Saint  Theresa, 


158  Journal  oj 

who  used  to  build  little  oratorio  for  his  sister  ; 
the  virgin  Eulalie  —  but  no,  she  at  the  age  of 

twelve  seems  too  tall  amidst  these  infantine 
forms,  but  I  should  be  sure  to  lind  some  other 
little  saint  to  frame  in.     All  this,  interspersed 

with  flowers,  birds,  pearls,  would  make  a  pretty 
picture  for  childhood.  Something  prompts  me 
to  turn  it  into  a  book,  as  I  once  talked  to  you 
of  doing.  I  do  not  know  how  it  is  that  I  have 
never  been  able  to  get  rid  of  this  idea  :  on  the 
contrary,  it  presents  itself  more  frequently  than 

ever. 

i~lh.  —  Nothing  put  down  here  for  some 
days  past  ;  but  I  have  written  a  good  deal  else- 
where, for  1  feel  a  necessity  of  pouring  myself 
out  in  some  direction.  I  have  done  so  to  Louise 
and  before  God  ;  nothing  is  better  than  faith 
for  the  soul  and  friendship  lor  the  heart.  You 
know  what  it  is  that  distresses  me  ;  to  think  that 
you  have  been  very  ill,  that  you  may  still  be  so. 
Who  can  tell?  a  hundred  lea-ties  off!  My 
God  !  what  misery  this  distance  occasions  !  1 
cannot  even  know  where  you  are,  and  I  want 
so  to  know  everything.  An  anxious  heart  is  a 
very  craving  and  very  suffering  thing. 

Here  is  the  whole  of  ray  day  :  this  morning 
to  mass,  writing  to  Louise,  reading  a  little,  and 
then  in  my  own  room.     Oh,  but    I   do  not  tell 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  159 

all  I  do  there  !  I  have  got  some  flowers  in  a 
glass  ;  and  for  a  long  time  I  kept  looking  at 
two,  of  which  one  bent  down  over  the  other 
which  opened  out  its  chalice  below.  It  was 
sweet  to  contemplate  them,  and  to  represent 
to  one's  self  the  confidence  of  friendship  typified 
in  these  little  blossoms.  They  are  stellarias,  — 
small  white  flowers  with  long  stalks,  —  some  of 
the  most  graceful  flowers  our  fields  have.  One 
finds  them  along  the  hedges,  amidst  the  grass. 
There  are  a  good  many  in  the  road  to  the  mill, 
sheltered  by  a  bank  which  is  all  spangled  with 
their  little  white  faces.  It  is  my  favourite 
flower,  and  I  have  put  several  before  our  image 
of  the  Virgin.  I  should  like  them  to  be  there 
when  you  come,  and  to  show  you  the  two 
friendly  blossoms  I  spoke  of.  A  sweet  image, 
charming  on  both  sides,  when  I  think  that  a 
sister  is  the  flower  below.  I  think,  my  friend, 
that  thou  wilt  not  say  nay  to  this.  Dear  Mau- 
rice, we  are  going  to  see  and  hear  each  other  ! 
These  five  years  of  separation  will  all  be  recov- 
ered in  our  conversations,  our  chit-chat,  our 
every  moment's  say. 

30//L  —  For  two  days  I  have  said  nothing 
to  you,  dear  Maurice  ;  I  have  not  been  able 
to  note  down  here  anything  that  has  occurred 
to  me,  whether  ideas,  events,  fears,  hopes,  sad- 


160  journal  o) 

nesses,  or  happiness.  What  a  book  all  this 
would  make  !     Two  days  of  life  arc  sometimes 

1  o n l;  and  full  ;  nay,  all  arc,  if  we  choose  to 
piuse  over  whatever  presents  itself  in  their 
course.  Life  is  like  a  road  bordered  with 
flowers,  trees,  bushes,  grasses,  —  with  innumer- 
able things  which  might  indefinitely  lix  the  eye 
of  the  traveller  ;  but  he  passes  on.  Oh,  yes  ! 
let  us  pass  on  without  allowing  ourselves  to  be 
too  long  detained  by  what  we  see  on  earth, 
where  everything  withers  and  dies.  Let  us 
look  above  —  gaze  on  the  skies,  the  stars;  rise 
thence  to  the  heavens,  which  will  not  pass 
away.  It  is  thither  the  contemplation  of  nature 
leads ;  the  soul  soars  from  sensible  objects  to 
the  regions  of  faith,  and  looks  down  on  crea- 
tion  from  on  hiyh,  and  then  the  world  seems 
quite  different. 

How  small  in  earth  to  him  who  views  il  from 
the  skies  !  says  Delille  after  a  saint,  —  for  saints 
and  poets  sometimes  have  the  same  ideas. 
Nothing  more  true  than  this  smallness  of  the 
earth  thus  beheld  by  the  eye  of  a  soul  which 
knows  where  to  place  itself  to  obtain  a  correct 
view.       Thus     Bossuet     learnt    to    estimate    the 

nothingness  of  worldly  greatness,  thus  the  saints 

trampled  under  foot  all  that  shone  in  the  eyes 
of  other  men,       fortune,  pleasures,  glory ;  and 


Eugenie  de  G  iter  in.  161 

got  themselves  treated  as  fools,  by  this  their 
singular  wisdom. 

[No  date.']  —  At  last  a  letter  from  you.  You 
are  better,  almost  well ;  you  are  coming.  I  am 
thankful,  happy  ;  I  bless  God  a  thousand  times 
for  this  good  news,  and  I  take  up  my  writing 
neglected  for  many  days  past.  I  was  suffering, 
I  still  suffer  ;  but  it  is  only  a  remnant,  a  discom- 
fort which  will  soon  be  over.  Indeed  I  do  not 
know  what  it  is,  nor  what  I  have  wrong  about 
me  :  it  is  neither  head,  nor  stomach,  nor  chest, 
nothing  physical ;  it  must  then  be  the  mind, 
poor  sick  mind  ! 

June.  —  Two  visitors,  both  persons  that  I 
like  and  who  will  give  us  pleasure  so  long  as 
they  will  stay  here.    One  cannot  say  as  much  for 

all  guests,  but  Eliza  R is  good  and  clever,  her 

cousin  A is  very  sweet,  and  without  being 

beautiful  has  a  youthful  charm  which  makes  me 
admire  her.  My  little  room  is  given  up  to  them, 
so  that  I  shall  come  to  it  less  often.  However, 
from  time  to  time  I  do  escape  and  make  my 
way  here,  as  I  am  doing  now,  to  write,  read, 
and  pray  —  three  things  that  are  of  use  to  me. 
Every  now  and  then  the  soul  needs  to  find  itself 
alone,  and  to  recollect  itself  undisturbed.  This 
is  what  I  come  here  to  do.  I  have  written  to 
Felicite,  and   answered  Gabrielle,  who  eagerly 

VOL.    I.  —  II 


1 62  Journal  of 

asked  after  you  30  soon  as  she  knew  that  you 
were  ill.  These  proofs  of  friendship  touch  me 
and  make  me  bless  God  for  being  loved. 
Affection  is  so  sweet  a  thing,  it  blends  with  joy 
and  softens  affliction.  Marie  de  Thezac,  too, 
has  shown  the  same  interest.  At  all  events 
thou  hast  true  friends. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  163 


V. 

26t/i  of  January,  1838. 

T  RE-ENTER  for  the  first  time  the  little 
-*-  room  in  which  you  still  were  this  very 
morning.  How  sad  the  room  of  an  absent 
friend  is  !  One  sees  him  everywhere,  without 
finding  him  anywhere.  Here  are  thy  shoes 
under  the  bed,  thy  table  all  dressed  out,  the 
looking-glass  suspended  on  the  nail,  the  books 
thou  wert  reading  last  night  before  going  to 
sleep  ;  and  here  am  I,  who  then  embraced  thee, 
touched  thee,  beheld  thee  !  What  is  this  world 
in  which  everything  disappears  ?  Maurice,  my 
dear  Maurice,  oh,  how  I  want  thee  and  God  1 
Accordingly,  as  soon  as  we  had  parted,  I  went 
to  church,  where  one  can  weep  and  pray  at  one's 
ease.  What  do  you  do  —  you,  who  do  not 
pray  —  when  you  are  sad,  when  your  heart  is 
broken  ?  For  my  part,  I  feel  that  I  require  a 
superhuman  consolation  ;  that  one  must  needs 
have  God  for  friend,  when  what  one  loves  makes 
one  suffer. 

What  has  happened  to-day  that  can   be  writ- 
ten down  >     Nothing  but  thy  departure  ;   I  have 


164  Journal  of 

seen  only  thee  going  away,  only  that  cross 
where  we  parted.  Had  the  King  come  here.  I 
should  not  have  cared  ;  but  I  have  seen  no  one 
but  Jeannot  bringing  back  your  horses.  I  was 
at  the  window  at  the  time,  but  drew  my  head 
in  ;  it  seemed  as  though  I  were  looking  at  the 
return  of  a  hearse. 

It  is  evening  now  ;  the  end  of  a  very  long, 
very  sad  day.  Good-night  ;  thou  mightest  still 
almost  hear  me.  thou  art  not  far  away  yet  ; 
but  to-morrow  —  the  day  after  —  ever  farther, 
farther  off  I 

i~lh.  —  Where  art  thou  this  morning  r  After 
thi>  cry  1  am  going  hence  as  if  to  look  for  thee, 
here  and  there,  where  we  have  been  together 
so  lately. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  sew  and  iron.  I  have 
read  but  little,  only  the  good  old  Saint  Francis 
de  Sales,  at  his  chapter  on  the  affections.  That 
was  the  very  one  for  me  !  the  heart  ever  seeks 
out  appropriate  food.  For  my  part,  I  could 
live  upon  loving  ;  whether  father,  brothers, 
sisters.  — something    I    must  always  have. 

What  is  there  to  be  said  on  Sundays,  when 
the  pastor  does  not  preach  ?  It  is  the  manna  of 
our  desert  this  word  from  Heaven  —  which 
drops  down  gentle  and  stainless,  and  has  a  pure 
and  simple  tastr  that  I  love.      I  came  back  last- 


Eugenic  de  Gucrin.  165 

ing  from  Andillac  ;  but  since,  I  have  been 
reading  Bossuet,  those  fine  sermons  so  scored 
by  thy  hand.  I  left  them  with  my  mark  often 
above  thine.  So  it  is,  everywhere  we  meet,  like 
a  pair  of  eyes  ;  what  you  see  to  be  beautiful,  I 
see  beautiful  too.  The  Almighty  has  made  a 
part  of  the  soul  very  much  alike  in  us  two. 

28//L  —  By  this  time,  no  doubt,  you  have  left 
Toulouse  ;  you  roll  on,  go  your  way,  get  farther 
from  us.  Oh  that,  at  least,  you  may  not  cough 
during  your  journey  —  that  it  may  not  be  cold  — 
that  no  accidents  may  occur  !  1  I  "  What  is  to 
happen  to  him,  O  my  God,  I  cannot  know  ;  all 
I  do  know  is  that  nothing  will  happen  that  has 
not  been  arranged,  foreseen,  ordained  by  Thee 
from  all  eternity.  This  suffices  me,  my  God, 
this  suffices  me  !  I  adore  Thy  eternal  and  im- 
penetrable designs  ;  I  submit  to  them  with  all 
my  heart  for  love  of  Thee  !  I  will  everything  ; 
I  accept  everything  ;  I  sacrifice  everything  to 
Thee  ;  and  I  unite  this  sacrifice  to  that  of  Jesus 
Christ,  my  Saviour.  I  ask  Thee  in  His  name 
for  perfect  submission  to  all  Thou  wiliest  and 
permittest  to  happen.  May  the  most  just,  most 
exalted,  and  most  gracious  will  of  God  be  ac- 
complished in  all  things."  —  Prayer  of  Madame 
Elizabeth  in  the  Temple  tower,  very  often 
repeated  by  me  in  the  little  room. 


ioo  Jon  null  of 

I  am  going  to  write  to  our  cousin  Saint- 
Hilaire ;  then  we  shall  go  to  Cahuzac,  with 
Mum,  to  see  Francon,  who  is  very  ill. 

2<>th. — Thunder,  hail,  autumn,  this  morning. 
Summer  weather  now,  the  sun  is  hot  and  op- 
pressive. What  variations  in  the  sky  and  in  all 
thin^  !  Everything  was  frozen  a  fortnight  aj 
and  thou  wert  here  :  it  is  not  the  cold  that  I 
lament.      Oh,  that    north   wind,  that   blew  then. 

ve  me  such  pleasure  I  I  used  to  bless  it  each 
time  that  I  passed  shivering  through  the  hall. 
And  yet  you  had  to  go;  I  consented  to  it  for 
the  sake  of  her  who  was  waiting  for  you  in 
Paris:  one  must  know  how  to  part  in  this 
world.  Would  that  I  could  know  where  you 
are.  what  point  you  have  got  to.  what  way 
you  make;  in  order  to  join  thee,  to  embrace 
thee  !  Would  that  my  arms  were  long  enough 
to  reach  all  those  I  love  !  I  can  conceive  how 
God,  who  is  Love,  should  be  everywhere. 

The  pastor  has  been  to  sec  us;  his  visit  was 
a  pleasure  to  me.  I  like  his  little  chit-chat, 
which  does  not  go  farther  than  his  parish,  nor 
require  an  effort  to  follow,  however  downcast 
one's  mood  may  be.  I  don't  know  what  I  have 
been  scribbling  ;  my  ideas  are  constrained,  ill 
at  ease,  tied  by  the  leg,  as  it  were,  and  Strug- 
gling  oddly   enough    in    my   head.     Shall    I    let 


Eugenie  de  Querin.  167 

them   have  their  way?     No!     After   a    tender 
good-night,  I   leave  you. 

31s/.  —  I  have  discovered  in  myself  a  droll 
affection  indeed.  Foolish  heart  of  mine,  that 
takes  to  everything  !  Shall  I  tell  it  ?  I  am  fond 
of  the  three  leeches  that  are  on  the  mantel- 
piece. I  should  not  like  either  to  give  them 
away,  or  to  see  them  die  ;  I  change  their  water 
every  day,  taking  great  care  that  none  of  them 
drop  out.  If  I  do  not  see  them  all,  I  take  up 
the  phial  and  look  what  is  going  on  inside  it, 
with  other  unequivocal  signs  of  affection  ;  and 
this  because  these  leeches  were  brought  here 
for  Charles  —  that  Charles  came  with  Caroline 
—  and  that  Caroline  came  for  thee  1  Droll 
sequence  this,  which  makes  me  laugh  at  what 
the  heart  can  string  together.  What  a  variety 
of  things  !  It  is  amusing  to  reflect  on  this,  and 
to  be  able  to  see  you,  amidst  leeches  !  Im- 
possible even  to  separate  you  as  yet  ;  these 
creatures  indicate  hot  or  cold  weather,  rain, 
sunshine,  and  I  have  been  continually  consulting 
them  since  you  went  away.  Fortunately  the 
phial  has  always  stood  at  fair.  We  say,  over 
and  over  again,  "  Maurice  will  have  arrived 
without  catching  cold,  without  severe  weather, 
without  rain."  Thus  it  is,  my  friend,  that  we 
keep  thinking  of  thee  —  that  everything  makes 
us  so  think. 


[68  Journal  of 

isi  February.  —  A  dark,  cloudy  day  , —  disma 
inside  and  out.  1  am  more  dejected  than  usual, 
and.  as  I  do  not  choose  to  yield  to  dejection,  I 
have  taken  up  my  sewing  to  kill  it  with  the 
point  of  my  needle  ;  but  the  ugly  serpent  still 
writhes,  though  I  have  cut  off  head  and  tail 
both,  —  that  is  to  say,  idleness  and  enervating 
thoughts.  The  heart  gets  debilitated  by  these 
mournful  impressions,  and  that  does  harm.  Oh, 
if  I  but  knew  music  !  They  say  it  is  so  good, 
so  soothing  for  disorders  of  the  soul. 

2nd  (Friday).  — This  day  week,  at  this  very 
hour,  you  went  away.  1  am  about  to  pass  along 
the  road  where  we  parted.  It  is  Candlemas  ; 
I  am  going  to  church  with  my  taper. 

We  have  come  back  from  Andillac  with  a  let- 
ter from  Felicite  :  there  was  one  for  thee  from 
Caroline,  which  I  returned,  slipping  into  it  a 
word  for  the  dear  sister.  I  may  well  call  her  so 
at  the  point  we  have  got  to  ;  it  is  but  anti- 
cipating a  few  months,  I  hope.  And  yet  who 
knows  r  I  am  always  in  anxiety  about  this 
affair,  and  about  you.  bad  artisan  of  happiness 
that  you  are  !  1  am  afraid  that  you  will  not 
perfect  this  happiness  ;  that  you  will  leave  un- 
fastened the  last  link  of  the  chain  that  would 
unite  you  Ot  ever.  .  .  .  For  ever  seems  to 
me  alarming  for  thee,  independent,  wandering 
1  low  fix  thee  in  thy  aerie  !    .    .    . 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  169 

Nor  is  this  the  only  particular.  God  knows 
what  others  I  find  in  thee  that  distress  and 
sadden  me.  If  from  the  heart  we  pass  on  to 
the  soul,  oh,  it  is  there,  it  is  there!  .  .  .  But 
what  is  the  use  of  talking,  and  observing,  and 
complaining  ?  I  do  not  feel  myself  holy  enough 
to  convert,  or  strong  enough  to  influence  thee. 
God  alone  can  do  this.  I  pray  much  that  He 
may,  for  my  own  happiness  depends  on  it.  You 
may  not  perhaps  conceive  how.  You,  with 
your  philosophical  eye,  do  not  discern  the  tears 
of  a  Christian  eye  over  a  soul  in  danger,  a  soul 
so  much  loved,  the  soul  of  a  brother,  sister  soul 
of  one's  own.  All  this  makes  one  lament  like 
Jeremiah. 

Here  is  this  day  ending  with  snow.  I  am 
glad  to  think  of  you  at  your  journey's  end,  now 
that  the  cold  has  returned.  Provided  only  that 
you  do  not  suffer  from  your  long  walks  —  that 

your  chest  keep  well  —  that  M.  d'A do  not 

make  you  sit  up  too  late  while  relating  his 
troubles.  A  thousand  anxieties  suggest  them- 
selves and  sadden  me  ;  a  thousand  thoughts  rise 
in  me,  and  fall  in  flakes  over  Paris. 

I  found  my  first  poem  among  some  scraps  of 
paper,  and  put  it  by.  I  put  by  everything  I  find 
that  I  should  have  shown  thee,  hadst  thou  been 
here.    That  you  should  no  longer  be  here  some- 


170  Journal  of 

times  seems  impossible  ;  I  keep  saying  to  my- 
self that  you  will  soon  return,  and  yet  you  are 

very  far  aw. iv  ;  and  your  shoes,  those  two  empty 
feet  that  still  stand  in  your  room,  do  not  stir.  I 
look  at  them,  I  love  them  almost  as  much  as  that 
little  pink  shoe  you  were  reading  about  to  me 
the  other  day  in  Hugo.  The  heart  can  thrust 
itself  in  everywhere,  into  a  shoe,  into  a  phial; 
one  would  say  it  was  a  very  silly  thing.  Do 
you  not  say  so  ? 

)rd.  —  I  have  begun  my  day  by  fitting  myself 
up  a  distaff,  very  round,  very  firm,  very  smart. 
with  its  bow  of  ribbon.  There,  I  am  going  to 
spin  with  a  small  bobbin.  One  must  vary  work 
and  amusements;  tired  of  a  stocking,  I  take 
up  my  needle,  then  my  distaff,  then  a  book.  So 
time  passes,  and  carries  us  away  on  its  wings. 

Eran  has  just  arrived.  I  was  longing  to  see 
him,  and  to  know  on  what  day  you  had  left 
I  ,  lillac.  It  was  on  a  Friday,  then,  —  the  same 
OU  went  from  here.  It  was  on  a  Friday, 
too,  that  you  set  off  for  Brittany.  This  day 
is  not  a  happy  one  ;  Mamma  died  on  a  Friday, 
and  1  have  remarked  that  other  sad  events 
have  happened  on  it.  I  do  not  know  whether 
one  ought  to  believe  in  fatal  days. 

4//;.  —There  are  some  days  that  are  happy, — 
the  Sunday,  —  often  the  Sunday.      Letters  as  we 


Eugenie  de  Giterin.  171 

came  from  mass;  one  of  yours  from  Bordeaux. 
At  length  news  of  you,  —  your  handwriting  at 
length  !  When  shall  I  have  other  letters  from 
Paris?  How  ambitious  the  heart  is!  This 
morning  transported  with  what  I  hold  ;  now  it 
is  not  enough  !     I  sent  you  back,  a  letter  from 

M ;  very  sorry  not  to  have  time  to  slip  in  a 

word  for  you.  This  word  is  here  ;  you  will 
come  upon  it  very  late.  Who  knows  when  this 
little  book  will  reach  you  ;  whether  it  will  be  it 
or  me  you  will  see  first  ?  I  should  like  it  to 
be  me. 

I  leave  thee  with  a  regret,  a  secret  that  I  may 
not  tell  thee  because  it  is  not  mine.  One  day 
perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  speak  of  it.  It  would 
take  up  a  great  space  on  this  paper,  my  confi- 
dant, if  it  had  not  been  written  before  under 
seal  of  secrecy  in  my  heart. 

jth.  —  I  have  not  time  to  write. 

6//2.  —  I  have  written  a  good  deal,  but  far  from 
here,  —  not  for  here.  It  is  a  pity,  for  I  could 
have  filled  many  sheets  with  what  springs 
from  my  heart  to-day.  This  is  what  you  like. 
Augustine  came  to  spend  the  day  with  us,  no 
one  being  at  home  at  the  parsonage.  This  lit- 
tle one.  who  generally  amuses  me,  failed  to  do 
so,  and  must  have  found  my  face  stern  and  my 
air  preoccupied.     I  took  my  distaff  by  way  of 


\j2  Journal  of 

diversion,  but  all  the  while  I  was  spinning  my 
mind  spun,  and  wound,  and  turned  its  bobbin  at 
a  fine  rate.  /  was  not  at  my  distaff  ;  the  soul  jusl 
sets  that  kind  of  mechanical  work  going,  and 
then  leaves  it.  Where  does  that  soul  go  to? 
Where  was  mine  to-day  ?  God  knows  where, 
and  you  too  in  a  measure  ;  you  know  that  I  am 
seldom  away  from  you.  not  even  when  1  read 
those  fine  sermons  with  which  you  made  me 
acquainted.  I  find  in  them  so  many  things 
applicable  to  thee.  Oh,  you  ought  indeed  to 
continue    to    read    them  ! 

~lh.  —  A  loud  north  wind,  a  grand  orchestra 
at  my  window.  I  am  rather  fond  of  this  har- 
mony proceeding  from  all  the  ill-jointed  frames, 
the  ill-closed  shutters,  and  all  the  holes  in  the 
walls,  and  having  a  variety  of  notes,  some  so 
ridiculously  shrill  that  they  would  pierce  the 
hardest  hearing.  Droll  kind  of  music  this  of 
Cavla.  that  I.  as  I  said,  am  fond  of,  because  I 
have  no  other.  One  who  never  hears  anything 
else  will   listen  to  a  noise,  whatever  it   be. 

A  visit,  a  friend  !  M.  Linier.  Almost  in  en- 
tering, "  How  is  M.  Maurice  ;  have  you  heard 
from  him  r"  "  To-morrow,  to-morrow  we  shall, 
no  doubt."  Questions  like  this  please  ;  one  sees 
that  it  is  tie  heart  that  puts  them.  These 
worthy    priests    love    us ;    we    have    no    better 


Eugenie  de  Gitt'iiii.  173 

friends  in  the  whole  country.  Good-night ;  I 
must  needs  busy  myself  with  the  supper,  and 
prepare  the  bed.  To-night  Eran  is  to  occupy 
your  little  room.  To-morrow  morning  I  shall 
come  to  see  if  it  is  you  who  are  there  ;  I  shall 
listen  if  you  call  out  to  me,  "  Come  in  alone  ; 
open  the  door,  and  come  in."  Alas  1  alas!  how 
things  pass  away,  and  how  memories  remain  ! 

8th. — Oh!  letters,  letters  from  Paris;  one 
from  thee.  You  have  arrived,  well  in  health, 
cheerful,  welcome  !  God  be  praised  !  I  can 
give  nothing  else  a  thought.  I  tell  everybody, 
"  Maurice  has  written  to  us;  he  has  got  well 
over  his  journey,  has  had  fine  weather,"  and  a 
hundred  other  things  that  start  up. 

We  have  a  fine  day,  sweet  weather,  mild  air, 
a  cloudless  sky  ;  nothing  but  leaves  are  wanted 
to  make  us  suppose  ourselves  in  the  month  of 
May.  This  smiling  nature  mollifies  the  soul, 
and  disposes  it  for  happiness.  ll  Impossible," 
thought  I,  as  I  was  walking  this  morning, 
"impossible  but  that  something  pleasant  must 
occur ;  "  and  I  got  your  letter.  I  was  not 
mistaken. 

These  letters,  this  writing,  what  pleasure  it 
gives  me  !  how  the  heart  falls  and  feeds  upon  it. 
But  by  and  by  one  grows  sad  again,  joy  sub- 
sides, regrets  rise,   and   make  one    think    that 


174  Journal  of 

alter  all  a  letter  is  but  a  small  thing  in  place  oi 
a  person.  One  is  never  satisfied  ;  all  our  joys 
are  truncated.  God  will  have  it  so  —  will  have 
it  so,  and  that  the  beautiful  bit  that  is  ever 
wanting  be  only  found  in  heaven.  There  hap- 
piness in  its  completeness,  there  eternal  reunion. 
This  ought  surely  to  excite  desires  in  certain 
hearts,  ought  to  make  them  live  like  Christians. 

Wrote  to  Louise,  to  Marie. 

o//k  —  Anniversary  of  our  grandfather's  death. 
We  have  been  to  mass :  on  my  return  I  wrote  to 
thee  ;  I  am  still  writing.  I  could  write  always 
and  everywhere,  on  the  tiles  of  thy  little  room, 
on  the  soles  of  thy  shoes  ;  who  can  say  where 
thought  may  not  go  and  light  ;  but  I  carry  it  in 
here,  like  a  bird  upon  its  branch,  and  it  sings. 
What  shall  I  tell  thee  ?  the  first  thing  that  comes 
uppermost  ?  —  that  at  this  same  season  there 
was  once  mourning  and  joy  at  Cay  la,  death 
and  baptism  —  the  death  of  the  grandfather,  the 
birth  of  the  grandson.  At  this  time  Erembert 
came  into  the  world.  It  is  sad  to  be  born  be- 
side a  -rave,  but  so  we  all  are  ;  life  and  death 
touch.  What  is  it  that  Shakespeare's  gravedig- 
gers  say  about   this,  —  I   know  not  where? 

I  have  not  read  much  of  your  favourite 
author,  though  I  consider  him  admirable,  like 
M.  Hugo;  but  these  geniuses  have  blots  thai 


Eugenic  de  Giterin.  175 

shock  a  woman's  eye.  I  detest  to  meet  with 
what  I  do  not  choose  to  see,  and  this  makes  me 
close  many  a  book,  —  '  Notre-Dame  de  Paris,' 
for  instance.  That  I  take  up  a  hundred  times  a 
day ;  the  style,  that  Esmeralda,  her  goat,  so 
many  pretty  things  tempt  me,  say  to  me,  "  Read, 
look."  I  do  look.  I  turn  over  the  pages,  but 
there  are  stains  here  and  there  in  those  pages  that 
stop  me  ;  no  more  reading,  and  I  content  my- 
self with  merely  looking  at  the  pictures.  I  am 
still  as  fond  of  them  as  a  child.  I  could  hardly 
help  tearing  out  the  one  about  the  cake  of  Indian 
corn,  of  that  very  pretty  mother,  and  very  pretty 
child.  We  have  admired  it  together,  which 
accounts  for  its  delighting  me. 

But  I  have  got  very  far  from  our  grandfather, 
and  from  the  serious  thoughts  that  were  arising 
upon  birth  and  death.  Let  us  return  to  them  ; 
they  too  are  dear  to  me,  and  I  happen  to  have 
a  book  open  before  me  with  this  passage  of 
Bossuet  on  the  subject:  "Does  there  not  in- 
deed appear  to  be  a  certain  relation  between 
swaddling-clothes  and  winding-sheets  ?  Those 
that  are  newly  born  are  wrapped  almost  in  the 
same  way  as  the  newly  dead,  a  cradle. has  some 
resemblance  to  a  sepulchre,  and  it  is  a  token  of 
our  mortality  that  we  should  be  buried  at  our 
birth." 


1/6  Journal  of 

\oth.  —  I  come  back,  to  where  I  was  yester- 
day, to  speak  about  death,  life,  and  Bossuet, — 
those  three  grand  things.  The  infant  belonging 
to  the  wife  of  Jean  Roux  is  at  this  moment  be- 
ing carried  to  the  churchyard.  We  hear  the 
bell,  which  is  making  the  poor  mother  weep 
bitterly,  and  occasions  in  me  thoughts  that  are 
half  sweet,  half  gloomy.  One  reminds  one's  self 
that  these  little  departed  ones  are  happy,  that 
they  are  in  heaven  ;  but  one  thinks  of  adults, 
of  those  souls  of  full-grown  men  that  <^o  to  ap- 
pear before  God  with  so  many  days  to  number, 
and  what  days  ?  .  .  .  When  their  life  is  laid 
open,  that  journal  kept  by  God,  as  says  Bossuet. 
and  one  sees  .  .  .  But  I  erase  ;  it  does  not 
behove  me  to  make  an  examination  of  souls,  — 
that  is  the  office  of  God  only.  May  they  all  be 
happy,  may  not  one  of  those  I  love  be  wanting 
in  heaven  !  This  is  enough  to  occupy  me,  and 
to  change  all  my  questionings  into  prayer. 

A  letter  from  Marie,  another  from  Hippolyte, 
laconic  in  its  style.  "  Come  such  a  day,  thou 
wilt  oblige  me."  This  was  not  for  me,  as  you 
may  suppose,  but  an  invitation  to  Eran  for  a 
luncheon  and  a  ball.  Everything  is  stirring  just 
now  ;  gaiety  has  sounded  to  arms,  and  few  are 
absent  from  the  muster.  1  [ere  we  merely  listen, 
we  converge,  we  spin,  we  read,  we  write  to  our 


Eugenic  Ac  Giicn'n.  177 

friends  ;  such  is  the  peaceful  Cayla  life  that 
I  love,  and  should  regret  if  I  had  to  leave  it.  I 
am  as  attached  to  it  as  a  bird  to  its  cage.  My 
goldfinch  always  used  to  come  back  to  his  when 
I  let  him  out,  and  he  could  make  but  little  of 
flying.  So  it  would  be  with  me  ;  my  wings 
would  not  carry  me  far  into  the  world.  A  corner 
of  a  room  in  which  you  would  be,  with  Caro- 
line your  wife,   is  all.     That  is   my  Paris,  my 

world. 

nth.  _  a  letter  from  Louise,  the  dear  friend 
who  on  setting  out  for  the  wedding  wrote  me  a 
letter  prettier  than  the  jewels  of  the  bride. 

12th.  —  Papa  is  gone  to  the  .  The  pas- 
tor has  been  here.  We  have  had  snow  and 
sunshine,  great  variety  of  weather,  and  little  to 
say.  I  am  not  in  a  mood  to  write  or  to  do  any- 
thing amiable  ;  quite  the  contrary.  There  are 
these  days  when  the  soul  draws  into  its  shell, 
and  plays  the  hedgehog.  If  you  were  there, 
close  beside  me,  alas  I  I  should  prick  you  very 
badly,  I  think.  But  would  to  God  it  were  so  ! 
I  should  not  be  fancying  that  perhaps  you  are 
not  feeling  well  in  that  Paris  air. 

15/i  —  I  am  just  come  from  Andillac  with  a 

beautiful  large  apple  that  Toinon  d'Aurel  gave 

me,  to  thank  me  for  having  been  to  see  her  son, 

who   is  ill.       Nothing    more    grateful    than    a 

vol.  1.  —  12 


178  Join  iijI  of 

mother,  and  a  poor  mother.  Our  leeches  have 
come  in  for  the  poor  child.  What  better  use 
could  we  make  of  them  alter  they  had  served 
as  a  weather-glass  during  your  journey  ?  I  care 
much  less  for  them  now.  Thus  it  is  that  my 
affections  very  often  prove  to  be  interested,  and 
ebb  and  flow  according  to  the  day.   And  now  here 

is  Papa,  arriving  ill  from  .  as  he  does  every 

time  he  goes  there.  There  are  places  which 
are  not  good  for  us.  I  am  always  afraid  Paris 
should  have  this  effect  upon  you.  At  all 
events,  if  Papa  is  ill,  we  have  him  here  to 
nurse.  Perhaps  it  will  be  nothing  after  all. 
Who  knows  ?  Anxiety  soon  gets  possession  of 
the  heart. 

Papa  is  better ;  he  has  been  feverish,  and  has 
slept  ill.  We  gave  him  up  our  room,  which  is 
warmer  than  his,  and  I  took  your  bed.  It  is 
very  long  since  I  slept  there  before  ;  not,  1 
think,  since  I  tore  from  the  paper  on  the  wall 
the  hand  of  a  man  who  was  about  to  rob  a  nest 
painted  on  it.  At  all  events,  1  gave  him  credit 
for  this  wicked  intention,  which  used  to  put  me 
in  a  passion  every  morning  1  woke,  and  which 
at  last  I  punished  by  an  act  of  severity  for 
which  1  was  myself  punished  in  my  turn.  They 
scolded  me  for  having  mutilated  the  poor  man, 
without    listening    to  my  assurances  that   he  was 


Eugenie  de  Guertii.  179 

wicked.  Who,  indeed,  discerned  this  but  me  ? 
In  order  to  manage  children  well,  we  must  bor- 
row their  eyes  and  their  hearts,  see  and  feel  as 
they  do,  and  judge  them  from  their  own  point  of 
view.  One  would  spare  them  thus  many  tears 
that  flow  because  of  ill-said  lessons.  Poor  little 
children  I  how  it  pains  me  to  see  them  unhappy, 
teased,  contradicted.  Do  you  recollect  the 
Pater  that  I  used  to  repeat  mentally,  that  Papa 
might  not  scold  you  at  lessons  ?  I  have  the 
same  compassion  still,  with  this  difference,  that 
now  I  pray  God  to  make  parents  reasonable. 

If  I  had  a  child  to  bring  up,  how  gently  and 
cheerfully  I  should  set  about  it,  with  all  the  care 
that  is  given  to  a  delicate  flower !  Then  I 
should  speak  to  them  of  the  good  God  in  lov- 
ing words  :  I  should  tell  them  that  He  loved 
them  even  better  than  I, — that  He  not  only 
gave  me  everything  that  I  gave  them,  but  the 
air,  the  sun,  and  the  flowers  besides  ;  that  He 
had  made  the  sky  and  all  the  beautiful  stars. 
These  stars,  —  I  can  recollect  what  a  beautiful 
idea  they  gave  me  of  God  ;  how  often  I  used 
to  get  up,  after  I  had  been  put  to  bed,  to  look 
at  them  out  of  the  little  window  at  the  foot  of 
my  bed,  in  our  cousin's  house  at  Gaillac.  This 
window  was  nailed  up,  for  I  used  to  open  it  and 
to  hang  out  of  it,  at  the  risk  of  falling  over  into 


i  80  journal  oj 

the  street.  This  proves  that  children  have  a 
sense  of  the  beautiful,  and  that  it  is  easy  to  in- 
spire them  with  faith  and  love  by  means  oi 
God's  works. 

And  now  you  must  know  that  this  morning,  in 
opening  the  window,  I  heard  the  song  of  a 
blackbird  who  was  singing  as  loud  as  ever  he 
could  up  above  on  GoKe.  It  was  delightful, 
this  song  of  spring,  amidst  the  crows  ;  it  was 
like  a  rose  in  snow.  Mimi  is  e,<>ne  to  the  ham- 
let, Papa  is  in  his  room,  Eran  is  at  Gaillac, 
and  I  with  thee.  This  is  often  the  state  of 
things. 

\>lh. —  Another  letter  about  a  ball.  Poor 
dancers !  to  whom  do  they  address  themselves  - 
As  well  knock  at  a  convent  as  at  the  Cayla.  But 
I  am  wrung  ;  they  have  Eran,  Eran  who  dances, 
converses,  plays,  dues  all  manner  of  pleasant, 
amiable  things,  and  j^ets  himself  called  charm- 
ing. Indeed,  he  is  very  agreeable  both  to  men 
and  women  ;  he  is  a  complete  man  of  the  world. 
Alas  !  there  are  many  such  ! 

I  have  read  some  pages,  written  a  little. 
thought  a  great  deal,  and  made  a  charming  spin- 
dleful  ;  and  all  this  is  called  a  day  —  one  of  my 
days. 

l6th.  —  A  blank, — that  is  better  than  any- 
thing that  I  should  have  put  down.      Is  it  worth 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  i8i 

while  to  say  that  I  did  not  feel  well  to-day  ; 
that  I  went  with  Mimi  to  walk  off  my  discom- 
fort in  the  woods  and  fields  ;  that  we  came  upon 
a  lark  that  went  off  singing,  and  that  I  rather 
envied  it  its  wings  and  its  joy  ? 

j-7/Zj.  —  A  letter  from  Caroline.  What  a  hap- 
piness to  know  you  so  loved,  so  well  cared  for, 
only  having  to  cross  the  street  to  find  yourself 
in  your  own  room  !  No  more  colds,  no  more 
fears,  no  more  of  those  dragons  that  I  used  to 
fancy  at  thy  heels  in  Paris.  God  be  praised,  I 
am  at  rest!  In  all  this  I  see  the  arranging  of 
Providence,  who  orders  all  for  your  good.  And 
yet,  you  do  not  love  the  good  God  !  His  mer- 
cies toward  you  shine  in  my  eyes  like  diamonds. 
Only  look,  my  friend,  at  all  that  has  come  to 
sweeten  your  poor  position  ;  at  this  unexpected 
assistance,  this  family  affection,  this  mother,  this 
sister  who  is  more  than  sister,  —  so  loving,  so 
gentle,  so  pretty,  — who  promises  you  so  much 
happiness.  Do  you  not  see  something  in  all 
this,  some  Divine  hand  ordering  your  life  ?  I 
now  begin  to  hope  for  you  a  future  better  than 
the  past,  that  past  which  has  made  us  suffer  so 
much.  But  all  of  us  have  our  time  of  tribula- 
tion, misfortune,  servitude  in  Egypt,  before  the 
manna  and  the  sweetness  of  life. 

Romiguieres  has  been  to  spend  the  evening 


iSj  Journal  of 

here,  to  warm  himself  at  our  tire,  and  talk  of 
sheep  and  asses,  and — what  especially  amused 
me  —  to  show  his  papers  in  order  to  get  to  know 
his  real  age  ;  he  had  made  a  mistake  of  seven 
years  |  Happy  man,  ignoring  Ins  own  life  ! 
These  peasant-lives  pass  on,  like  the  brooks, 
without  knowing  how  long  they  have  been 
(lowing.  They  have  indeed  their  epochs,  but 
they  do  not  date  as  we  do.  They  will  tell  you, 
••  I  was  born  when  this  field  was  in  corn.  I 
married  when  that  tree  was  planted,  or  that 
house  was  being  built."  Grand  and  beautiful 
registers  I  Bernardin,  I  think,  makes  Virginie 
speak  thus ;  for  my  part,  I  have  heard  it  a  hun- 
dred times  at  Andillac  or  here.  Simple  nature 
is  everywhere  the  same. 

At  night,  with  my  feet  in  a  footbath.  —  In 
this  rather  too  hot  water,  I  am  thinking  of  the 
martyrs  ;  of  what  those  baths  of  pitch,  oil,  or 
boiling  water,  into  which  they  were  plunged, 
must  have  been.  What  men  !  Were  they  really 
of  our  nature.'  Can  one  believe  it,  when  one 
feels  so  acutely  the  least  touch  of  pain  —  a  spark, 
a  drop  of  water.'  when  one  cries  out,  and  draws 
back  as  I  have  just  been  doing  -  What  should  I 
have  done  in  Blandma's  place  -  My  God  I 
doubtless  as  she  did.  for  faith  renders  us  super- 
human, and  I  think  I  do  truly  believe-. 


Eugenie  de  G iter in.  183 

18th.  —  Brought  back  from  Andillac  one  letter 
announcing  a  death,  and  another  a  marriage, — 
that  of  Mademoiselle  de  Saint-Gery  with  M.  de 
Morliere.  Tears  and  joys  ;  blendings  of  al- 
most every  day  in  life,  which  is  composed  of 
perpetual  contrasts. 

19//1.  —  Waited  till  evening,  to  see  what  I 
should  have  to  say.  Nothing.  Do  you  like 
that  ?  If  you  preferred  words,  I  could  find 
some  in  my  heart,  even  when  they  did  not 
spring  from  anything  without.  A  woman's 
heart  is  talkative,  and  does  not  require  much  ; 
it  is  able  of  itself  to  extend  to  infinity,  and  to 
play  the  eloquent  out  of  that  little  chest  where 
it  dwells,  as  out  of  an  orator's  tribune.  My 
friend,  how  many  times  I  have  harangued  thee 
thus  !  but  when  I  do  not  believe  either  that  I 
can  give  thee  pleasure,  or  be  of  use  to  thee, 
why,  then  I  am  silent  ;  I  take  up  my  distaff, 
and,  instead  of  the  woman  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  I  am  the  simple  country-girl,  and  this 
pleases  me,  diverts  me,  relaxes  my  mind.  There 
is  one  side  of  my  character  which  comes  into 
close  contact  with  the  simplest  classes,  and  in- 
finitely enjoys  them.  Accordingly  I  have  never 
been  given  to  dream  of  greatness  or  fortune, 
but  how  often  of  a  little  home  far  from  cities, 
very  neat,   with   its  deal    furniture,   its  shining 


[84  Journal  oj 

household  utensils,  its  trellised  door,  hens  !  and 
myself  there,  with  I  know  not  whom, — for  I 
would  not  have  a  peasant  such  as  ours,  who 
are  boors,  and  who  beat  their  wives.  Do  you 
remember  .  .  .  r 


Eugenie  de  Gnerin.  185 


VI. 

Continuation  of  the  igtk  February  (183S). 
TTERE  is  a  new  book.  What  shall  I  put 
i"L  into  it  ?  what  shall  I  say,  shall  I  think, 
shall  I  see,  before  I  get  to  the  end  of  it  ?  Will 
it  contain  happiness  or  unhappiness  —  will  it 
have  .  .  .  ?  But  what  matters  it  !  I  shall  take 
whatever  comes,  just  as  the  brook  does  down 
yonder.  These  inquiries  into  the  future  only 
serve  to  torment  one,  because  we  generally 
foresee  in  it  more  pains  than  pleasures.  The 
sick,  the  dead,  the  afflicted,  how  know  I  what 
phantoms  are  to  be  met  with  in  this  obscurity  ? 
Yesterday  it  struck  me  that  Papa  might  be 
going  to  have  a  stroke,  because  he  complained  of 
a  numbness  of  the  right  side,  —  his  father  having 
died  of  one  much  at  the  same  age.  Poor 
Father !  what  should  I  do  on  earth  without 
him  ?  I  have  never  looked  upon  myself  as 
placed  in  the  world  for  anything  else  than  his 
happiness  ;  God  knows  this,  and  that  I  have  de- 
voted my  life  to  him.  The  idea  of  leaving  him 
never  occurred  to   me,  except  to  enter  a  con- 


1 86  Journal  oj 

vent;  and  even  this  thought  is  wearing  out,  so 
impossible  do  I  feel  it  to  tear  myself  hence,  to 
go  away  from  home  even  to  go  with  thee.  Paris 
has  little  attraction  for  me,  I  assure  you ;  I 
should  never  take  two  steps  in  its  direction  if 
you  came  here  as  a  family  man  to  be  with  us,  to 
live  with  us.  Impossible  delight  !  Present  sad- 
ness and  bitterness  ;  this  is  all  that  comes  of 
meddling  with  the  future!  It  would  have 
been  better  to  have  taken  up  the  thread  of  the 
other  book  ;  to  have  continued  my  tale  like 
Scheherezade. 

I  was  about  then  to  ask  you  whether  you  re- 
membered that  man  we  met  once  upon  the 
Gaillac  road,  who  by  his  way  of  entering  his 
home  like  a  thunderclap  gave  me  a  sort  of 
terror  ;  and  how  much  talk  you  and  I  had 
about  conjugal  happiness  and  unhappiness. 
Then,  turning  to  the  subject  of  your  marriage, 
pleasant  thoughts  came  into  our  minds.  I  told 
thee  that  the  good  God  had  surely  made  Caro- 
line for  thee  as  He  did  Eve  for  Adam,  and  you 
asked  me  to  pray  that  Me  might  also  grant  you 
a  little  angel  of  a  daughter.  As  soon  as  you 
are  married  I  shall  not  fail  to  do  so.  Night 
calls  me  hence. 

24//?.  —  A  day  that  begins  with  rain  and  the 
cawing  of  crows.     We  shall  see  what  will  happen 


Eugenie  de  Gueriii.  187 

between  this  and  evening.  I  have  no  written 
for  some  days,  owing  to  certain  visits  we  have 
had, — to  I  know  not  what  besides  that  pre- 
vented my  writing.  It  is  not  the  heart  that 
keeps  silence. 

How  well  I  did  to  wait  until  evening  !  Could 
I  have  put  in  anything  more  charming  than  what  I 
see,  what  I  hold,  what  I  feel,  —  than  the  pleasure 
thy  letter  has  given  me,  the  second  thou  hast 
written  since  thy  return  to  Paris?  Oh,  how 
full  of  happiness  it  is,  and  how  delighted  I  am 
to  know  thou  art  at  length  as  I  have  long  wished 
thee  to  be  !  You  do  not  go  out,  you  do  not 
endanger  your  health,  you  do  not  see  company  ; 
in  the  midst  of  Babylon,  your  letters  might  be 
dated  from  some  solitude.  Unexpected  wisdom 
this,  which  enchants  me,  makes  me  bless  God, 
makes  me  hopeful,  consoles  me,  rills  my  heart 
with  a  nameless  feeling  that  leads  me  to  rejoice 
on  your  account.  O  brothers,  brothers  !  we 
love  you  so  much  !  If  you  but  knew  it,  if  you 
but  understood  how  precious  your  welfare  is  to 
us,  and  by  what  sacrifices  we  would  purchase 
it  !  O  my  God,  may  they  indeed  understand  it, 
and  not  so  readily  expose  their  dear  healths  and 
their  dear  souls  ! 

More  letters  and  packets,  report  of  the  '  Pro- 
pagation of  the  Faith,'  mandate  from  our  Arch- 


1 88  Journal  of 

bishop.  This  medley  has  been  poured  out  of  an 
apron,  and  covers  the  whole  of  the  round  table. 

Ten  o'clock  in  the  evening. — This  day  was 
marked  out  for  pretty  things,  for  arrivals.  The 
box.  the  long-expected  box.  is  come.  Cuffs, 
frills,  comb,  brush,  pins,  fragrant  powder,  —  all 
circulate  from  hand  to  hand.  It  is  M.  de 
Thezac's  little  Mariette  who  has  brought  this  to 
us  from  Gaillac.  Good-night !  I  am  going  to 
think,  happily  about  thee  and  Caro  ;  I  am  going 
to  sleep  well. 

j'slh.  —  A  month  this  very  day  and  hour  since 
thy  departure.  This  somewhat  changes  the 
"  couleur  de  rose  "  of  last  evening  ;  but  adieu  ! 
I  have  to  think  of  quite  other  than  human  things  : 
it  is  Sunday  and  I  am  setting  off  to  church.  We 
all  dine  at  the  priest's  ;  he  shall  have  your  re- 
membrances, and  you  mine  before  God.  It  is 
there  that  they  are  most  precious. 

2<)th.  —  One  moment's  escape,  —  one  moment 
with  thee  while  I  am  waited  for  in  the  kitchen. 
I  should  prefer  my  own  little  room  ;  but  they  are 
stewing  ducks,  making  pastry,  preparing  a  little 
carnival  dinner  which  needs  my  aid.  We  are 
expecting  the  pastor  ;  if  I  could  but  expect 
some  one  besides  '.  All  who  come  make  me 
think  of  you  who  come  not.  Let  us,  however, 
draw  near  in  heart,  let  us  write  to  each  other,  — 


Eugenie  de  Giterin.  189 

thou  from  thy  cell  in  the  world,  I  from  my  little 
room  in  this  solitude.  From  without,  very  dif- 
ferent things  will  suggest  themselves  to  us  two  ; 
it  will  not,  I  hope,  be  so  from  within.  Paris 
and  the  Cayla  have  less  resemblance  than  our 
souls,  our  thoughts,  our  two  beings.  It  is  tire- 
some to  have  to  separate  in  order  to  make 
pastry. 

2jth.  —  It  rains  ;  I  was  watching  it  rain,  and 
then  I  proposed  to  myself  to  let  my  thoughts, 
too,  fall  thus  drop  by  drop  on  this  paper.  This 
will  clear  my  sky,  which  is  laden  as  well  as  the 
other,  not  indeed  with  great  clouds,  but  with  a 
something  that  veils  the  blue,  the  serene.  I 
would  fain  smile  on  everything,  and  feel  myself 
inclined  to  tears  ;  and  yet  I  am  not  unhappy. 
Whence,  then,  comes  this  r  Probably  it  is 
because  our  soul  grows  weary  on  this  earth, 
poor  exile  that  it  is  !  .  .  .  There  is  Mimin  at 
her  prayers  ;  I  will  do  as  she  does  and  take  my 
weariness  to  God.  Oh  me  !  what  would  have 
become  of  me  without  prayer,  without  faith, 
without  the  thought  of  heaven,  without  that 
woman's  piety  which  turns  into  love,  into  divine 
love  r  I  should  have  been  lost,  and  devoid  of 
any  happiness  on  earth  —  you  may  believe  me  ; 
I  have  as  yet  found  none  anywhere,  or  in  any 
human  thing,  not  even  in  thee. 


190  Journal  of 

iw.h.  Ash  Wednesday.-  Here  I  am  with 
ashes' on  my  brow  and  solemn  thoughts.  This 
Memento  pubis  is  fearful;  the  whole  of  to-day 
I  keep  hearing  it.  I  cannot  abstract  myself 
from  the  thought  of  death,  more  particularly  in 
this  room,  where  I  no  longer  see  thee,  where 
I  have  seen  thee  dangerously  ill,  where  thy 
presence  and  thy  absence  alike  suggest  melan- 
choly images. 

One  thing  alone  is  smiling,  the  little  medal  of 
the  Virgin  suspended  at  the  head  of  thy  bed. 
It  is  still  bright  and  in  the  same  place  where  I 
put  it  as  a  safeguard  for  you.  If  you  knew, 
my  friend,  the  pleasure  I  take  in  looking  at  it  ; 
the  memories,  the  hopes,  the  secret,  sacred 
things  connected  in  my  heart  with  that  holy 
image  !  I  shall  keep  it  as  a  relic,  and  if  you  ever 
return  to  sleep  in  this  little  bed  you  will  sleep 
once  more  beside  the  medal  of  the  Virgin. 
Tolerate  in  me  this  confidence,  this  love,  nol 
for  a  bit  of  metal,  but  for  the  image  of  the 
Mother  of  God.  I  should  much  like  to  know 
whether  in  your  new  cell  one  would  see  the 
Saint  Theresa  that  used  to  hang  in  the  other 
near  the  holy-water  vessel. 

Where  thou  in  n<  ed  of  t^racc 
Fainting,  would'sl  take  the  alms  that  met  thy  case.1 

1  Lines  by  Saint  Theresa  t.>  her  brother. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  191 

You  no  longer  take  them  thence,  I  much 
fear,  —  your  alms;  whence  do  you  take  them  ? 
Who  knows  ?  Is  the  world  in  which  you  are  liv- 
ing now  rich  enough  for  your  needs  ?  Maurice, 
if  I  could  but  infuse  into  thee  some  of  my 
thoughts  on  this  subject,  if  I  could  but  insinuate 
into  your  mind  what  I  believe,  and  what  I  learn 
in  books  of  devotion,  those  beautiful  reflections 
of  the  Gospel !  If  I  could  but  see  you  a  Chris- 
tian !  .  .  .  I  would  give  life  and  everything  for 
that. 

M.  Fieuzet  has  been  with  us  for  the  last  three 
days,  and  introduces  a  little  variety  into  our 
somewhat  uniform  conversations,  — always  about 
fields  or  sheep,  unless  indeed  letters  arrive ; 
and  they  do  not  come  every  day.  This  worthy 
Cur<§  amuses  us,  narrates  all  sorts  of  little  inci- 
dents connected  with  parishes,  parsonages,  and 
the  church,  which,  blended  with  sprightly  sallies, 
are  really  amusing.  We  laughed  heartily  over  a 
cur£  in  the  neighbourhood  who  had  the  bells 
rung  for  a  wedding  party  who  were  passing 
through  his  parish  ;  we  laughed  over  that  wed- 
ding party  mounted  on  a  cart  drawn  by  oxen, 
over  the  triumphal  arch  above  the  cart,  and  the 
motto  on  the  arch.   .  .  . 

\st  March. — Just  now  I  was  watching  two 
little  vagrants  passing  in  a  state  of  ecstasy  under 


i 92  Journal  of 

the    great    poplar-tree.     They   could   not  suffi- 
ciently lift  their  heads  and  eyes,  and  I  was  think 
ing  that  in  like  manner  whatever  is  high  attracts 

our  intellect,  and  that  I  should  do  just  the  same 
as  they  below  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt,  .  .  . 
when  a  verv  small  bird,  chancing  to  light  upon 
the  summit  of  the  poplar,  made  me  feel  the  im- 
potence of  our  poor  human  nature,  and  took 
down  the  pride  of  my  thoughts. 

Come,  here  are  provisions  for  Lent,  Massillon 
just  sent  me  by  Eliza.  I  shall  read  a  sermon 
every  day.  Thus  the  soul  is  catered  for  ;  the 
mind  must  fare  as  it  can.  I  do  not  know 
with  what  to  feed  it  ;  I  have  no  books  that 
suit  my  taste.  And  yet  I  needs  must  have 
something;  I  cannot  dispense  with  reading, — 
furnishing  that  which  thinks  and  lives  with  ali- 
ment of  some  kind.  I  am  going  to  devote  my- 
self to  serious  subjects, — to  '  Indifference  in 
Matters  of  Religion.'  This  is  the  best  thing  I 
can  get  at ;  and   then    I    am   glad,  too,  to   read 

tin  what  I  first  met  with  in  my  youth,  — what 
amazed,  penetrated,  and  enlightened  me  like  a 
new  sky.  When  M.  1'Abbe  Gagnc  recom- 
mended me  this  work  I  hardly  knew  anything 
besides  the  'Imitation'  and  a  few  devotional 
books.  Jud-e  therefore  of  the  effect  these  power- 
ful lectures  made,  and  how  widely  they  expanded 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  193 

my  mind  1  From  that  moment  I  had  a  new  view 
of  things  ;  a  revelation,  as  it  were,  took  place 
in  me,  of  the  world,  of  God,  of  everything.  It 
was  a  delight  and  a  surprise  like  that  of  the 
chicken  leaving  its  shell.  And  what  charmed 
me  above  all  was  that  my  faith,  by  feeding  upon 
all  these  grand  subjects,  grew  deep  and  strong. 

14//2.  —  A  gap,  a  silence  of  twelve  days.  A 
journey  to  Gaillac,  whither  I  had  not  taken  my 
book.  I  meant  to  return  that  same  evening  ; 
but  Louise,  whom  I  went  to  see,  was  at  Saint- 
Gery,  so  I  had  to  wait  for  the  dear  friend,  which 
kept  me  out  longer  than  I  wished — I  am  not 
fond  of  going  from  home.  Nothing  gives  me 
so  much  pleasure  as  my  desert  ;  to-day,  that  it 
is  resplendent  with  sunshine  and  soft  light,  I 
would  not  change  it  for  the  most  magnificent 
city.  I  do  not  like  a  house-top  for  horizon,  nor 
to  walk  in  the  streets  when  our  roads  are  frin- 
ging themselves  with  flowers.  Just  now  it  is  a 
delight  to  be  in  the  open  air,  and  to  wander  as 
the  partridges  do.  Papa  has  been  able  to  go 
with  us  to  the  end  of  the  long  vine.  We  sat 
down  for  a  short  time  in  the  wood,  near  the 
spot  where  Caroline  lost  her  footing.  We 
talked  of  her  and  her  fall.  I  saw  again  the 
group  that  we  then  formed  in  the  midst  of  the 
oak-trees,  — a  group,  alas  !  so  widely  dispersed  ! 
vol.  1  — 13 


194  Jour lul  of 

and  these  reflections  over,  I  ran  to  look  for  vio- 
lets  on  a  hill-side  exposed  to  the  sun.  They 
were  the  first  we  had  seen.  I  put  one  here, 
and  offer  it  thee  as  the  first  fruits  of  the  Cayla 
spring. 

I  do  not  tell  you  what  I  did  and  saw  at 
Gaillae  ;  it  is  not  worth  while,  unless  I  were  to 
speak  of  Louise.  And  indeed  I  saw  but  very 
little  of  her,  and  she  was  so  occupied,  so  sur- 
rounded, that  we  could  have  no  confidential 
talk.  We  are  getting  anxious ;  you  do  not 
write,  nor  Caro,  nor  any  one.  This  is  a  post- 
day,  but  nothing  comes ;  and  yet  I  wrote  to 
you  by  M.  Louis  de  Rivieres,  and  sent  you  one 
of  my  copy-books.     Is  this  not  worth  a  word  ? 

i  Uh.  —  A  letter,  but  not  from  thee  !  It  comes 
from  Euphrasie,  who  gives  me  news  of  Lili, 
sad  news  which  make  me  dread  to  lose  this 
poor  friend.  I  am  going  to  Cahuzac  to  com- 
municate them  to  my  aunt. 

1 6th. — The  Vialarette  will  never  more  bring 
you  chestnuts  and  4chaud4&  from  Cordes  ;  p. 
girl  !  she  died  last  night.  I  regret  her  en  ac- 
count of  her  good  qualities,  her  fidelity,  her  at- 
tachment to  us.  If  we  were  ill.  there  she  was 
at  once  ;  if  we  wanted  any  little  service  ren- 
dered, she  was  ready  ;  and  then  she  was  so 
discreet,    so    much    to    be    trusted,    one   of  the 


Eugenie  de  Gun  in.  195 

small  number  of  persons  to  whom  one  might 
safely  confide  a  secret.  This  was  the  sublime 
feature  of  her  condition,  as  it  seems  to  me,  this 
religion  of  secret-keeping,  which  she  had  not 
learnt  from  education.  I  would  have  trusted 
her  with  anything. 

Not  one  of  the   Andillac  women  approaches 
this   poor    Marie    in    elevation   of  feeling,    or 
strong  and  living  faith.     You  should  have  heard 
her   speak   out,    clearly  and    straightforwardly, 
to    the    village    philosophers,    to     those    who 
spoke    lightly  of   God,    of    confession,    of    all 
the    holy  things  at  which    it   is   too  much    the 
custom    to    laugh    in   village   gatherings.     Oh, 
she  loved  them  all  I     She  used  to  confess,  to 
fast,  to  keep  Lent  with  five  pennyworth  of  oil, 
to  believe  in  heaven  ;  and  she  must  be  there,  I 
hope.     God  will  have  accepted  this   pure  and 
simple  soul.     Her  faults  were  merely  inequali- 
ties  of    temper,    oddities   of    character    which 
sometimes  made  her  disagree  with   her  neigh- 
bours.    But   they  were  soon  forgotten  ;  some 
service  rendered  would  rub   out  hasty   words, 
and  now  they  are  all   sounding  her  praises. 

I  went  to  see  her  yesterday  evening  ;  she  did 
not  know  me.  I  took  her  hand,  it  was  cold 
and  pulseless  ;  when  I  went  away  I  was  quite 
aware  that    I   had   seen  her  for  the  last  time. 


196  Journal  of 

That  cold  hand,  that  smothered  pulsation,  —  it 
was  death  that  I  had  been  touching  !  How  sad, 
how  gloomy,  how  awful  it  is,  this  passage  into 
the  other  life  !  What  would  become  of  us,  my 
God,  if  faith  did  not  throw  its  light,  its  hopes 
athwart  it  !  Happy  they  who  can  hope,  who 
can  say  with  La  Vialarette,  "  I  have  known  God 
and  have  served  Him!"  Her  knowledge  did 
not  go  beyond  the  Catechism,  nor  her  prayers 
beyond  the  Paler  Nosier;  but  everything  is  in- 
cluded therein  for  Christians,  great  and  small. 
Would  to  God  that  M.  de  Lamennais  had  never 
gone  further ! 

Mimi  acted  as  sister  of  charity  to  our  poor 
friend,  and  by  her  exhortations  helped  her  to 
endure.  It  was  to  her  the  sufferer  confided  her 
secrets  connected  with  the  next  life,  told  what 
masses  she  desired  for  the  repose  of  her  soul, 
and  for  this  purpose  made  over  to  her  sixty 
francs  that  she  had  kept  deposited  in  a  fagot,  — 
a  fagot  collected  branch  by  branch,  as  was  the 
money  penny  by  penny.  Holy  idea  this  of  the 
poor !  What  merit  this  deposit  will  have  in 
God's  sight  !  Of  how  much  cold  and  heat,  of 
how  many  steps,  efforts,  privations,  has  it  been 
composed  !  Who  knows  how  many  bits  of  bread 
she  bought  from  her  hunger  to  devote  their 
price  to  her  soul  r     Simple  and  admirable  faith  1 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  197 

17//1.  —  I  have  just  returned  from  the  funeral 
of  this  poor  girl,  the  first  person  I  ever  saw 
committed  to  the  grave.  It  was  a  painful  sight ; 
but  I  wished  to  accompany  to  the  last  her  who 
had  neither  brother  nor  sister  of  her  own,  her 
who  had  followed  to  that  same  churchyard  all 
those  members  of  her  family  whom  she  had 
seen  die,  her  who  had  taken  so  many  steps  for 
us,  alas  !  on  this  very  day,  Saturday.  In  short, 
I  determined  to  show  her  this  mark  of  affec- 
tion, and  to  accompany  her  by  my  prayers  to 
the  borders  of  the  next  world.  I  heard  mass 
by  the  side  of  her  coffin. 

There  was  a  time  when  this  would  have  ter- 
rified me,  but  now —  I  know  not  how  it  is —  I 
find  it  quite  natural  to  die ;  coffins,  deaths,  tombs, 
churchyards,  only  inspire  me  with  feelings  of 
faith,  only  raise  my  soul  on  high.  The  thing 
that  struck  me  most  was  hearing  the  coffin  drop 
into  the  grave  :  hollow,  lugubrious  sound,  man's 
last !  Oh,  how  penetrating  it  is  !  how  far  it 
enters  into  the  soul  that  listens  to  it  1  But  all 
do  not  listen  ;  the  gravediggers  seemed  to  look 
on  as  at  a  falling  tree  ;  little  Cotive,  and  other 
children,  kept  peeping  in  as  into  a  ditch  where 
there  were  flowers,  with  inquisitive,  wondering 
faces.  My  God  !  my  God  !  what  indifference 
surrounds  the  tomb  ! 


198  Journal  of 

How  wise  the  saints  are  to  die  beforehand, 
to  perform  their  own  obsequies  by  retiring  from 
the  world  !  Is  it  worth  while  to  remain  in  it  } 
No,  it  is  not  worth  while,  were  it  not  for  a  few 
beloved  souls  with  whom  God  wills  us  to  keep 
company  in  this  life.  There  is  Papa,  who  has 
just  been  to  pay  me  a  visit  in  my  room,  and  in 
going  away  left  two  kisses  on  my  brow.  How 
can  one  leave  these  tender  fathers  ? 

Again  in  anxiety  about  you  ;  no  letters.  I 
have  written  to  you  in  Paris.  Just  now  I  am 
going  to  the  sermon,  —  that  is,  going  to  read  one 
in  the  chimney  corner.  One  can  make  every 
place  a  church. 

18//1.  —  Rain,  mud,  wind,  wintry  day  and 
Sunday.  A  good  little  discourse  to  make  up  to 
me  for  the  fatigue  of  my  walk.  Uneasy  this 
evening  ;   no  letter. 

io//i. —  The  relations  of  La  Vialarette  have 
been  to  thank  us,  before  they  went  away,  for 
the  care  we  took  of  her,  and  to  offer  us  what- 
ever we  might  like.  .  .  .  Amidst  a  heap  of 
phials  and  other  rubbish  I  saw  a  little  white  pot 
that  we  used  yearly  to  fill  with  preserves  for  her. 
I  isked  for  it  as  a  remembrance.  I  have  it  ;  shall 
keep  it  and  look  at  it,  sacred  little  pot  that  it 
is,  as  if  it  were  that  of  the  widow  of  Sarepta. 

A  spindleful,  a   little  reading,  a  little  writing, 


Eugenic  de  Gucrin.  199 

a  few  glances  at  the  rain,  have  made  up  my  day. 
I  am  not  speaking  of  what  goes  on  within  the 
soul.  Last  night  I  dreamed  that  I  saw  your 
bed  all  in  flames.  What  mean  these  fears  by 
night  and  day  that  you  cause  me  ?  Oh  that  at 
least  I  may  not  have  to  be  anxious  about  thy 
health  1  All  the  rest,  that  God  knows  of,  is 
ite  enough.     Will  there  be  letters  from  thee 


qu 
to-morrow  ? 

20//?.  —  No  letter. 

21st.  —  I  go  on  waiting.  To-morrow,  perhaps 
to-morrow. 

24//?.  —  At  last  something  I  It  is  not  from 
you  indeed,  but  what  of  that  ?  I  know  that  you 
are  alive  ;  that  is  enough  for  me.  I  had  been  so 
full  of  fears  !  My  God  !  how  much  your  silence 
has  made  me  suffer  !  what  torments,  imagina- 
tions, suppositions,  distresses  I  What  terror, 
too,  on  seeing  that  letter  with  a  black  seal  ! 
Ah  !  M.  d'Aurevilly  little  knows  the  shock  he 
gave  me.  I  let  his  letter  fall ;  Erembert  took 
it  up,  opened  it,  and  returned  it  me.  I  un- 
derstood, I  read,  I  saw  ;  no  more  terror.  The 
poor  pear  is  the  cause  of  all  this !  Very  eloquent 
thanks  and  compliments,  but  unwelcome  under 
that  black  seal.  Accordingly  their  effect  was 
merely  sad  ;  a  nameless  gloom  remained  behind 
in   my  soul,   like  a  black  dye   upon  which  no 


200  Journal  of 

other  colour  can  take.  I  say  to  myself  over 
and  over  again,  "You  thought  he  was  dead; 
he  is  living,  he  is  well,  his  health  you  are  told 
will  soon  be  on  a  par  with  his  happiness."  But 
neither  that  nor  anything  else  can  free  me  from 
anxiety  Oil  your  account.  I  have  re-read  the 
letter,  and  see  to  a  certainty  from  it  that  you 
have  been  ill.  Would  your  friend  tell  me  that 
when  I  arrive  in  Paris  I  shall  find  thee  perfectly 
well  if  thou  hadst  not  been  suffering  r  Oh,  yes, 
thou  art  ill  1  I  have  had  a  fear  of  this  for  some 
time  back.  Poor  dear  health,  that  I  can  neither 
observe  nor  take  care  of.  .  .  .  Nothing  is  left 
me  but  to  recommend  it  to  the  good  God,  my 
holy  resource. 

2^//i,  Sunday.  —  An  excellent  discourse  on 
confession.  How  clear,  simple,  and  true  it  was  | 
How  well  the  preacher  succeeded  in  bringing 
the  proofs  of  the  divine  institution  of  confession 
within  the  grasp  of  Andillac  minds,  and  at  the 
same  time  instructing  our  poor  philosophers 
ignorant  of  their  catechism  !  I  should  like  to 
have  had  you  there  ;  you  would  have  approved  it 
highly,  especially  when,  after  having  answered 
objections,  confounded  enmity,  refuted  pretexts, 

it  rid  of  objections,  he  spoke  of  the  benefits 
of  confession  —  of  the  peace  it  instils  into  the 
individual,  the  family,  and  the  parish,  illustrat- 


Eugenie  de  Gucrin.  201 

ing  this  by  examples,  and  ending  by  calling  us 
all  with  his  Good  Shepherd"s  voice  to  his  feet, 
his  arms,  his  heart :  "  My  brothers,  a  mother 
who  loses  her  daughter  does  not  grieve  more 
than  I  when  I  see  one  of  your  souls  die  in  sin." 
And  this  was  no  mere  phrase,  it  was  an  expres- 
sion of  faith  and  charity.  This  is  really  what 
these  good  priests  think  and  feel  1 

Oh,  how  worthy  of  our  reverence  are  those 
who  have  the  spirit  of  God,  who  go  about  doing 
good !  I  venerate  them  as  I  do  relics,  and 
think  poorly  of  those  who  speak  ill  of  them. 
This  occurs  to  me  in  connection  with  certain 
mockers.  But  it  is  night ;  and,  moreover,  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  speak  of  such  people.  If  I 
can,  I  shall  return  this  evening  before  going 
to  bed. 

27//1.  —  They  were  true,  then,  those  presenti- 
ments of  mine  ;  you  are  ill,  you  have  had  three 
attacks,  you  cough  !  What  distress  1  My  poor 
Maurice,  must  I  then  be  thus  far  away  from 
thee,  unable  any  longer  to  see  thee,  to  hear 
thee,  or  to  take  care  of  thee  !  It  is  now  that  I 
long  to  be  in  Paris,  to  have  a  room  next  to 
thine,  as  I  had  here,  so  as  to  hear  thee  breathe, 
sleep,  cough.  Alas  !  I  have  to  hear  all  this  across 
two  hundred  leagues  1  Oh,  distance,  distance  ! 
I  suffer  greatly,  but  God  wills  it  so,  and  makes 


202  Journal  of 

me  pay  thus  dearly  for  my  sisterly  affection  No 
joy  without  bitterness,  nor  even  without  sacrifice. 
If  1  were  near  thee  I  fancy  that  you  would  feel 
better  ;  that  I  should  watch  over  what  you  eat, 
what  you  drink,  over  the  very  air  you  breathe. 
May  Providence  do  this,  and  keep  thee  as  the 
apple  of  an  eye  !  And  then  again,  that  sweet, 
tender  child,  who  is  as  a  sister  to  thee,  con- 
soles me.  She  it  is  who  hast  just  written  to 
Eran,  telling  him  of  your  illness  and  bidding 
him  nut  to  let  the  sisters  know.  Dear  Caro, 
she  is  well  a,ware  how  easily  sifters  are  made 
anxious.  Howl  lovelier;  how  rejoiced  I  am 
to  know  that  you  are  near  her  ;  how  I  bless  God 
for  it  !  What  would  become  of  you  in  your 
H6tel  de  Port-Mahon,  alone  with  men  ?  Your 
friend  would  indeed  be  there  ;  but  whatever  he 
may  say,  whatever  he  may  do,  a  man  can  never 
replace  a  woman  with  the  sick  any  more  than 
with  children.  Weakness  and  suffering  require 
those  attentions,  alleviations,  comforts,  which  it 
is  ours  to  invent. 

2!!///. — Oh  I  letters,— letters  of  the  heart,  let- 
ters of  sorrow  ;  for  it  is  all  one  '  Kind  aunt  ! 
She.  like  Caro,  tells  us  that  you  have  had  three 
attacks,  that  you  arrived  at  Paris  pale,  knocked 
up,  out  of  spirits  —  all  which  rends  my  heart. 
God   knows  what    I    would   not  do  rather  than 


Eugenie  de  Guerfn.  203 

know  thee  to  be  suffering  in  mind  or  body. 
But  I  can  do  nothing  for  either.  I  have  only 
power  to  pray,  and  I  do  pray  and  hope,  because 
faith  is  mighty.  God  is  our  strong  help,  this  I 
feel  experimentally.  Oh,  if,  as  Saint  Paul  says, 
we  had  hope  in  this  life  only,  we  should  be  the 
most  miserable  of  all  creatures  1 

Here  is  Lucy,  my  goddaughter,  come  to  bid  me 
good-night.  I  must  first  caress  her  a  little,  then 
comes  the  Catechism.  I  like  teaching  children, 
like  opening  their  little  minds  to  see  what  per- 
fumes are  enclosed  in  these  flower-buds.  In 
Lucy  I  find  a  penetration,  a  memory,  and  a 
gentleness  of  character,  which  render  the  child 
plastic  to  my  touch.  I  shall  be  able  to  teach 
her  to  know  God,  the  only  indispensable  knowl- 
edge in  this  sad  and  swift  life,  as  I  believe 
M.  de  Lamennais  calls  it. 

My  catechising  over,  I  am  going  to  read  a 
sermon  ;  we  are  in  Lent,  a  season  when  the  soul 
feeds  more  than  ever  on  holy  things.  Besides, 
I  need  them  as  a  counterpoise  to  the  griefs, 
alarms,  anxieties,  which  weigh  my  heart  down. 
Oh,  my  friend,  why  hast  not  thou  recourse  to 
this  ;  why  dost  thou  not  get  thyself  raised  by  some 
heavenly  influence  ?  You  would  not  then  be  so 
dejected  ;  as  it  is,  I  believe  you  are  unhappy  in 
spite  of  your  apparent  happiness,  and  that  this 


204  Journal  of 

is  the  cause  of  your  illness.  Most  of  our  m's- 
eries  come  from  the  soul  ;  thine,  poor  friend,  is 
so  sick,  so  sick  !  I  know  very  well  what  would 
cure,  or  at  all  events  relieve  it.  —  you  understand 
me  :  to  make  it  once  more  become  Christian,  to 
bring  it  into  relationship  with  God  by  the  ful- 
filment of  religious  duties,  to  cause  it  to  live 
by  faith — in  short,  to  establish  it  in  a  condi- 
tion suited  to  its  nature.  Oh,  then  would  come 
peace  and  happiness  (in  so  far  as  they  are  pos- 
sible to  man),  and  the  tranquillity  of  order,  —  a 
rare  and  excellent  thing,  only  to  be  obtained  by 
the  subjection  of  our  passions,  as  we  see  exem- 
plified in  the  saints. 

20//?.  —  Two  letters  written  to-day  ;  one  to 
Marie,  the  other  to  Irene,  my  Lisle  friend.  I  owe 
her  this  token  of  remembrance  and  gratitude 
for  her  long-standing  and  constant  friendship. 
It  was  she  who  wrote  to  me  first,  seven  years 
ago,  I  think,  after  a  few  days'  acquaintanceship 
at  Lisle.  Friendship  soon  springs  up  between 
women  :  a  smile,  a  word,  a  nothing  is  enough 
to  bring  about  amicable  ties  ;  but  then,  they  are, 
generally  speaking,  mere  bows  of  ribbon, — 
which  leads  to  the  saying  that  women  do  not 
really  love  each  other.  I  cannot  tell  ;  some  may 
love  for  a  day  or  two.  more  or  less,  and  yet  love 
very   much  ;  but   I    have   always   dreaded    such 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  205 

ephemeral  affections  for  myself  and  my  friends. 
Nothing  so  sad  as  a  dead  thing  in  one's  heart, 
as  making  the  heart  a  coffin.  Hence  whenever 
I  feel  or  see  an  affection  threatening  to  go  out  I 
make  all  haste  to  revive  it. 

Accordingly,  I  am  about  to  write  to  L.  of  the 
mountains,  who  seemed  to  me  slightly  changed. 
Perhaps  it  was  pre-occupation,  company,  cir- 
cumstances ;  but  she  has  left  in  my  heart  fears 
and  doubts  as  regards  her  friendship.  And  yet, 
when  I  recollect  the  long  tears  that  rolled  down 
her  cheeks  last  year  when  I  left  her,  these  fears 
vanish  from  my  mind. 

As  to  what  are  called  acquaintances,  I  have 
plenty  of  them,  and  I  know  not  how  I  make 
them  ;  I,  who  hardly  ever  leave  my  desert,  and 
who,  like  Paul  the  hermit,  would  willingly  live 
a  hundred  years  in  my  retreat  without  inquiring 
at  all  how  the  world  goes  on.  But  God  wills  it 
thus,  no  doubt,  for  some  purpose  to  me  un- 
known. Providence  orders  all  things,  even  the 
very  least  events,  and  therefore  one  accepts. 

I  have  just  been  reading  the  story  of  the 
child  raised  up  by  Elisha.  Oh,  if  I  knew  some 
prophet,  some  one  who  restored  life  and  health, 
I  would  go  like  the  Shunammite  to  prostrate 
myself  at  his  feet  ! 

30//Z. — This  fine  weather,  and  mild  air,  what 


206  Journal  of 

good  they  would  do  thee  !  I  keep  thinking 
of  this,  and  shall  regret  the  whole  of  this  spring 
that  I  cannot  see  thee  inhale  it  here.  It  would 
be  so  much  better  lor  thee  than  Paris.  Why 
cannot  you  live  with  us,  my  friend  !  What  a 
sorrow  to  see  thee  banished  as  it  were  from  the 
family  circle  !  Oh.  Fortune,  Fortune  !  what 
can  she  not  inflict  upon  us  when  she  is  unpropi- 
tious  ?  We  have  suffered  much  from  her  in 
thee. 

31s/.  —  I  do  not  know  who  or  what  made  me 
fling  my  copy-book  under  the  counterpane  of 
thy  bed  ;  I  break  off  and  hide  the  moment  any 
one  enters  the  room.  I  only  write  for  thee, 
and  in  order  to  do  this  avail  myself  of  the  lirst 
excuse  that  I  hit  upon  :  now  it  is  a  letter  to  be 
written,  now  some  notes  that  I  am  taking  ;  but 
what  always  answers  the  purpose  is  the  copy- 
book filled  with  poems,  that  Papa  has  asked  me 
for.  I  write  out  three  or  four  verses  a  day.  and 
when  Papa  comes  into  my  room  and  says, 
"What  are  you  about  ? "  I  reply.  "The  copy- 
book." This  is  not  an  untruth,  only  I  am  writ- 
ing two  COpy-book-.  and   I   take    iiid'e  delight  in 

the  one  than  the  other.     However,  I  shall  finish 

Papa's,  since  he  wishes  it  ;  the  dear  father  well 
deserves  that  I  should  please  him  too,  —  he  who 
would  give  me  the  moon. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  207 

Why  cannot  I  give  every  one  a  something  or 
other,  some  mark  of  affection  to  brothers  and 
sister,  to  all  I  love  ?  Let  me  see  and  make 
my  will.  To  thee,  my  Journal,  my  penknife, 
the  '  Confessions  of  Saint  Augustine  ; '  to  Papa, 
my  Poems ;  to  Erembert,  '  Lamartine ;  '  to 
Mimi,  my  rosary,  my  little  knife,  my  '  Way  of 
the  Cross,1  my  '  Meditations  of  Father  Judde  ; ' 
to  Louise,  the  '  Spiritual  Conflict ;  '  to  Mimi, 
again,  my  '  Imitation  ;  '  to  Antoinette,  the  '  Soul 
on  Fire  ;  '  to  thee,  too,  my  little  strong-box  for 
thy  private  papers,  on  condition  you  burn  all 
mine  should  any  be  found  therein.  Why,  as 
for  that,  what  could  you  make  of  them  ?  They 
only  concern  one's  own  conscience,  are  secrets 
between  the  soul  and  God  ;  a  few  letters  of 
advice  from  M.  Bories,  and  from  that  good  cure 
from  Normandy,  of  whom  I  have  spoken  to  you. 
I  keep  them,  both  as  mementos  and  for  use  ; 
they  are  my  papers,  but  they  must  never  see  the 
day.  If,  therefore,  what  I  am  now  writing 
playfully  comes  to  pass,  and  you  do  become  my 
executor,  remember  to  burn  all  that  strong-box 
contains. 

2nd  April.  — "  If  the  inevitable  necessity  of 
dying  saddens  human  nature,  the  promise  of  a 
future  immortality  encourages  and  consoles  our 
faith,  since  for  Thy  faithful  people,  Lord,  to  die 


208  Journal  of 

is  not  to  lose  life.-'  This,  my  friend,  is  what  I 
read  in  the  Preface  of  '  The  Dead,'  and  have 
thought  of  the  whole  of  this  day  on  which  our 
mother  died.  We  heard  mass  for  her  this 
morning.  You  were  hearing  it,  too,  in  Paris, 
and  I  beheld  thee  with  satisfaction  engaged  in 
this  communion  of  prayer.  I  thought  that  my 
mother  was  watching  thee  especially,  and  send- 
ing thee  down  some  grace  from  heaven,  as 
Rachel  would  have  done  to  her  son  Benjamin. 
Wert  thou  not  her  youngest  and  best  loved 
child  .-  I  can  remember  that  you  sometimes 
made  me  jealous,  that  I  used  to  envy  the  en- 
dearments, bonbons,  and  kisses  which  you  got 
in  larger  measure  than  I.  This  was  because  I 
was  a  little  older,  and  I  was  not  then  aware 
that  our  age  modified  the  expression  of  affec- 
tions, and  that  caresses  and  pettings,  the  milk 
of  the  heart,  are  the  portion  of  the  youngest 
and  least.  But  my  vexation  did  not  last  lone;, 
and  as  soon  as  reason  began  to  dawn  I  took  to 
being  very  fond  of  thee,  which  still  goes  on. 
Mamma  was  pleased  with  this  union,  this  fra- 
ternal love  between  us,  and  delighted  to  see 
thee  on  my  knees,  child  on  child,  heart  on 
heart,  as  now,  only  with  feelings  fuller  grown. 
If  from  that  other  life  they  watch  what  goes  on 
upon  earth,  my  mother  must  be  pleased  that  we 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  209 

love  each  olher  thus  ;  that  this  affection,  is 
profitable,  sweet,  consolatory  to  us  ;  that  we 
give  each  other  advice,  warning,  prayers,  spir- 
itual help. 

But  you  no  longer  pray  ;  you  ....  This  is 
sad.  There  is  no  day  that  passes,  this  day  more 
especially,  without  my  feeling  the  power  of  faith 
over  my  soul,  either  in  calming,  controlling,  or 
elevating  it.  This  morning  I  was  suffering : 
death,  tears,  separations,  our  whole  sad  life,  were 
killing  me  ;  and,  over  and  above,  apprehensions, 
terrors,  heartrendings,  a  demon's  talons  in  my 
soul,  — the  beginning  of  I  know  not  what  anguish. 
Well,  then,  at  present  I  am  calm,  and  this  I  owe 
to  faith,  to  nothing  but  faith,  to  an  act  of  faith.  I 
think  of  my  mother,  of  death,  of  eternity,  with- 
out distress  or  terror.  Over  a  gloomy  ground 
floats  a  divine  calm,  a  sweet  serenity  that  God 
alone  can  create.  It  is  in  vain  that  I  have  tried 
other  things  on  like  occasions  ;  nothing  human 
consoles  or  sustains  the  spirit. 

The  child  must  have  its  mother, 
My  soul  must  have  its  God. 

yd.  —  I   was   expecting  letters  from    Paris, 
tidings  of  thee,  but  nothing  came.     What  is  to 
be   said  or  thought  ?     Mere   who   knows,  con- 
jectures, doubts.     How  sad  doubt  is,  whether 
vol.  1.  — 14 


210  Journal  of 

to  heart  or  mind  !  May  God  deliver  us  from  it  ! 
Papa  i-  gone  to  Andillac  to  sec  if  the  carrier 
has  left  anything  there.  I  am  waiting  here  in 
my  little  room,  my  resting-place.  Oh,  how 
weary  I  am  !  't  is  SOlll-fatigue,  but  what  matters 
it?  I  will  work,  I  will  write,  I  will  not  give  in. 
Some  one  is  expecting  a  Liter.  I  had  letters  the 
day  before  yesterday  from  Felicite  and  Marie  de 
Thezac.  There  is  no  lack  of  any  letters  but 
thine. 

4//1.  —  It  is  cold,  it  rains,  it  snows.  A  low, 
doleful  wind  sings  at  my  window  and  makes  me 
inclined  to  answer  it  ;  but  what  can  one  say  to 
the  wind,  to  a  little  agitated  air?  Mas!  how 
often  we  are  nothing  more  !  Last  nighl  I  had 
a  remarkable  dream.  I  found  myself  with  M. 
de  Lamennais.  I  spoke  to  him  of  thee,  and  of 
his  earlier  and  later  works  ;  we  kept  up  an  ani- 
mated conversation,  and  were  far  from  agree- 
ing, for  he  did  not  agree  with  himself.  He 
itradicted  all  that  he  had  formerly  said. 
And  I  was  pitying  him,  the  poor  wanderer! 
"Oh,  you  detest  the  heretic."  "No,  Sir,  no 
indeed;   you  1  on   me  a  deep   sorrow,  you 

seem  to  me  a  wandering  star,  but  one  that  can- 
not fail  to  reappear  in  heaven."     And  upon  that, 
he,  the  room   in  which   we  were,  and  I,  all 
confused  in  the  chaos  of  sleep  ;  but  this  much  I 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  211 

remembered,  and  all  to-day  I  have  had  this  man 
of  genius  in  my  head.  When  I  reflect  that  you 
lived  with  him,  and  received  his  instructions, 
the  interest  I  take  in  him  becomes  intense. 
Oh,  how  much  this  man  occupies  my  mind,  how 
I  think  about  his  salvation,  how  I  implore  it  of 
God,  how  J  lament  his  lost,  his  holy  renown  I 
It  often  occurs  to  me  to  write  to  him  without 
giving  my  name  ;  to  let  him  hear  a  mysterious 
voice,  all  tears  and  entreaties.  Folly  and  auda- 
city this  on  my  part ;  but  yet  one  woman  did 
encounter  him  in  the  interests  of  hell,  to  com- 
plete the  reprobation  of  the  priest ;  might  not 
another  draw  near  to  him  in  the  cause  of 
heaven  ? 

They  are  burying  a  worthy  and  holy  man,  the 
Durel  of  Lentin,  del  Mas  des  Merix  ; 1  a  model 
peasant,  simple,  kind,  religious,  respectful,  tak- 
ing off  his  hat  to  us  to  the  very  ground.  He 
was  one  of  those  whom  one  could  not  help 
saluting  as  though  one  beheld  virtues  personi- 
fied. These  excellent  men  are  rare ;  they  go, 
and  we  see  none  like  them  come  in  their  place. 

jth.  —  Letter  from  Mademoiselle  Martin  ; 
arrival  of  M.  de  Faramond ;  events  of  the 
morning.     I   must  think  about  dinner  and  help- 


's* 

ing  Mimi. 


1  The  hamlet  of  Merix. 


2 1 2  Journal  of 

6th.  —  Nineteen  years  ago  to-day,  was  born 
on  the  bank,  of  the  Ganges  a  fragile  little  child, 
who  was  called  Caroline.  She  comes,  she 
grows  up,  gets  beautiful,  and  the  sweet  young 
girl  is  now  thy  betrothed.  I  admire  thy  hap- 
piness, my  friend,  and  how  careful  God  has 
been  of  it  in  giving  thee  such  a  companion, 
giving  thee  this  Eve  come  out  of  the  East  with 
so  many  graces  and  charms  !  And  then  I  see 
in  her  such  admirable  moral  qualities,  so  much 
sweetness,  goodness,  devotedness,  candour ; 
everything  about  her  is  so  beautiful  and  so  good 
that  I  look  upon  her  as  a  heavenly  treasure  for 
thee.  May  you  be  united,  be  happy !  We 
have  just  been  hearing  mass  to  your  intention, 
and,  according  to  the  expression  of  Mademoiselle 
Martin,  asking  God  for  Caroline's  happiness 
and  for  the  graces  necessary  to  the  new  life  that 
is  about  to  open  out  to  her.  Let  us,  oh,  do 
let  us  have  Heaven  on  our  side  ;  let  us  ask  God 
for  what  we  need,  we  poor  and  impotent  crea- 
tures !  The  good  pastor  will  say  another  mass 
for  you  to-morrow;  he  proposed  this  himself. 
"  One  must  pray,  too,  for  M.  Maurice.  .  .  ." 
Consequence  this  of  the  idea  of  the  nosegay, 
presentiment  of  your  union. 

ylh. —  ••Where  do  you  think  I  have  just 
come  from,  dear  Marie  -    Oh.  you  would   never 


Eugenie  de  Gueriii.  213 

guess  ;  from  warming  myself  in  the  sunshine  in 
a  cemetery.  A  gloomy  hearth  this,  if  you  will, 
but  where  one  finds  one's  self  surrounded  by 
one's  kindred.  There  I  was  with  my  grand- 
father, my  uncles,  my  ancestors  ;  with  a  whole 
crowd  of  beloved  dead.  My  mother  alone  was 
wanting ;  she,  alas !  reposes  rather  far  from 
here.  But  why  did  I  find  myself  there  ?  Do 
you  suppose  that  I  am  a  lover  of  tombs  ?  Not 
more  so  than  others,  my  dear.  The  fact  was,  I 
had  been  this  morning  to  confession,  and  as 
there  were  people  waiting  there,  and  I  felt  cold 
in  the  church,  I  went  out  and  sat  in  the  sunny 
churchyard  ;  and  there  reflections  arose,  and 
thoughts  tending  to  the  other  world,  and  the 
account  we  must  give  to  God.  What  a  good 
book  of  self-examination  a  tomb  is  1  How 
many  truths  one  reads  there  ;  what  light  one 
finds  ;  how  the  illusions  and  dreams  of  life,  and 
all  its  enchantments,  get  dispelled  !  When  we 
go  away  hence,  the  world  is  fairly  judged  ;  we 
cling  to  it  less. 


'& 


Our  foot  on  a  grave,  we  care  less  for  the  earth. 

There  is  no  dancer  but  would  throw  off  her  ball 
dress  and  wreath  of  flowers  ;  no  young  girl 
but  would  forget  her  beauty  ;  no  one,  in  short, 


214  Journal  of 

but  would  return  improved  from  this  land  of 
the  dead. 

"  But  what  is  this  I  am  saying  to  my  dear 
invalid  r  Forgive  me,  dear  friend!  I  ought  to 
enliven,  to  amuse  you,  to  sing  you  a  strain  like 
that  of  the  piping  bull  /inch;  but  I  am  a  bird 
that  lights  everywhere,  and  warbles  according 
to  feeling  and  place.  It  is  for  you,  my  kind 
one,  to  listen  to  me  indulgently,  and  not  to 
wonder  too  much  at  what  may  spring  from  my 
heart,  often  little  in  harmony  with  yours.  In 
spite  of  our  sympathy,  there  are  in  us  differences 
of  character  and  education  which  would  make 
me  tremble  for  myself  and  for  our  friendship  if 
I  did  not  believe  it  was  the  work  of  God,  and 
rested  on  nothing  human.  Not  to  know,  never 
to  have  seen,  and  yet  to  love  each  other,  is  this 
not  wholly  spiritual  ?  Accordingly  I  have  for  you 
a  quite  sacred  affection;  something  in  my  heart 
which  is  only  tenderness  and  prayer  for  you. 

"  How  I  would  I  could  see  you  happy  1 
Your  happiness  .  .  .  who  can  make  it  r  Where 
do  you  believe  it  to  lie  r  Tell  me,  and  let  me 
help  you  to  find  it.  It  is  for  this  only  that  I  am 
your  friend.  Let  us  see,  let  us  look  about. 
What  a  search  !  Did  you  ever  read  the  story 
of  the  king  mourning  for  the  loss  of  his  wife, 
to  whom  a  philosopher  promised  to  raise  her  up, 


Eugenie  de  Giierin.  215 

provided  there  could  be  found  three  thoroughly 
happy  persons  whose  names  might  be  engraved 
on  the  tomb  of  the  queen?  Never  could  they 
be  found,  —  which  doubtless  signifies  that  our 
soul  would  remain  for  ever  dead  if  human  hap- 
piness were  essential  to  its  life.  But,  on  the 
contrary,  it  must  go  out  of  the  boundary  of  this 
world,  and  seek,  beyond,  —that  is  in  God,  in  a 
Christian  life,  —  for  what  the  world  does  not  pos- 
sess. The  world  contains  no  happiness.  Those 
who  have  loved  it  best  tell  us  this.  It  diverts, 
but  can  never  fill  the  empty  heart.  Oh,  the  world 
has  indeed  gay  festivals  that  attract ;  but,  be  sure 
of  this,  you  would  but  feel  yourself  alone  and 
chilled  in  the  midst  of  the  joyous  crowd.  In 
these  candid  expressions,  this  avowal  of  a  lover 
of  the  world,  we  have  the  world's  sentence  pro- 
nounced. How  much  sadness  in  this  isolation, 
this  chill,  this  frost,  of  which  the  heart  is  con- 
scious, while  surrounded  by  pleasures  and  by 
those  who  partake  of  them  !  This  alone  would 
make  me  give  them  up,  if  ever  they  came  in 
my  way. 

"  Do  you  know,  dear  Marie,  that  you  do  me 
good  by  your  reflections,  that  you  make  me  ac- 
quainted with  the  world  by  your  letters,  which 
are  pictures,  and  that  you  greatly  detach  me 
from  all  my  illusions,  from  all  that  does  not  make 


216  Journal  of 

us  happy  >  Your  experience  instructs  me,  and 
I  bless  God  a  hundred  times  for  my  retired  and 
tranquil  life.  Otherwise,  what  danger '.  I  feel 
within  my  heart  all  that  I  observe  in  others; 
there  is  the  same  leaven  in  us  all,  but  it  rises 
differently  according  to  circumstances  and  will, 
for  the  will  goes  for  much  in  the  development  of 
the  heart.  One  can  help  it  to  be  good  or  bad, 
weak  or  strong,  much  in  the  same  way  as  a 
child  one  is  bringing  up.  Accordingly  it  is  not 
by  our  tendencies,  but  by  our  works,  that  the 
Gospel  tells  us  we  are  to  be  judged.  Oh,  when 
one  thinks  of  thai  judgment,  well  may  one  pay 
strict  attention  to  one's  life,  one's  heart,  there 
are  so  many  perils  within  and  without  !  My 
God  !  how  it  makes  one  tremble  and  take  every 
precaution,  and  almost  desire  to  quit  the  world 
altogether. 

Alas !    my    spirit    dreads   a   stain    contracted    from    the 
ground  ! 

How  shall  it  guard  the  robe  of  white  that  was  its  heavenly 

dower, 
Here  where  wc  walk  in  mire  and  clay,  and  dust  is  thing 
round. 
Which  clings  to  everything  it  meets,  —  yes,  even  to  the 
Bower  ! 

"  There   is    something   for    your    ejaculatory 
prayers;    I  am  very  happy  to  furnish  you  with 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  217 

any  such.  You  might  find  holier  ones,  but  do 
not  say  them  thus  aloud  in  company  ;  my  vanity 
hears  you,  — have  a  care. 

"  This  reminds  me  of  a  sorrow  and  a  regret. 
I  see  that  my  packet  for  the  Isle  of  France  was 
all  left  with  you  ;  my  poor  cousin  will  have  died 
believing  that  I  had  forgotten  him.  It  is  this 
alone  that  I  am  sorry  for.  Else  I  only  con- 
gratulate myself  upon  a  chance  which  has  gained 
me  your  friendship.  Since  then  you  have  loved 
me,  you  say.  Why  did  not  you  tell  me  so  be- 
fore ?  It  has  taken  many  days,  many  events, 
many  different  things  to  link  us  together,  but 
when  shall  we  meet  ?  It  is  not  your  fault  if  it 
be  not  soon,  and  I  know  not  how  to  thank  you 
enough  for  your  gracious  offers.  How  obliged 
I  should  be  to  you  1  But  I  cannot  yet  accept, 
not  having  settled  the  time  for  my  journey  to 
Paris.  I  shall  only  go  for  the  marriage,  or  soon 
after.  They  are  waiting  for  papers  from  Cal- 
cutta, which  will  decide  the  affair  at  once. 

"  How  I  long,  how  I  do  long  to  know  if  my 
brother  will  have  a  suitable  position  !  I  am  very 
anxious  about  his  future,  about  his  health  more 
especially.  That  precious  health,  what  alarm  it 
causes  !  There  he  is  ill  again  ;  he  has  had  three 
attacks  and  his  pallor  has  returned.  They  assure 
us  that  he  is  better,  that  the  fever  is  leaving 


218  Journal  of 

him  ;  but  I  am  afraid  they  are  deceiving  us,  and 

I  now  beg  of  you  not  to  deceive  us,  —  to  have 
the  kindness  to  send  some  one  to  see  him  and 
to  tell  me  openly  how  things  really  are.  It  was 
only  too  true  what  he  told  you  about  the  doctor 
forbidding  him  to  go  out.  I,  too,  should  forbid 
him  that  bad  Paris  atmosphere,  and,  above  all. 
emotion.  It  is  that  that  kills  him.  Let  his 
friends  avoid  anything  that  excites  his  feelin 

I   am   much  obliged   to    M.  de  M for    the 

visit  he  has  kindly  paid  him,  and  for  your  friendly 
interest  in  him,  which  I  hope  you  will  maintain. 
"  But  now  let  us  speak  of  you  and  of  your 
dear  health,  which  also  interests  me  as  you 
know  ;  but  you  cannot  know  how  much,  nor 
all  the  pleasure  that  these  words  gave  me  :  "I 
am  better,  much  better  I '  Oh,  that  this  improve- 
ment may  last  !  that  it  may  go  on  increasing,  so 
that  when  I  see  you  I  may  find  you  recovered, 
dear  invalid, — recovered, do  you  hear  r  You  must 
labour  at  this,  follow  the  prescriptions  of  your 
physician,  occupy  yourself  exclusively  with  your 
health  ;  only,  for  my  sake,  cultivate  friendship  a 
little,  which  is,  besides,  a  consolation  for  much. 
Then,  God  helping,  we  shall  see  if  things  do 
not  go  on  better.  Do  not  forget  prayer  either, 
—  that  best  remedy  for  the  soul  ;  if  my  book 
pleases  you,  read  it.  and   your  guardian   angel 


Eugenie  de  Gueri/i.  219 

will  be  pleased.  What  a  name  that  is  for  me 
to  take  !  but  I  accept  everything  from  you,  and 
bless  God  if  I  can  be  of  use  to  you  under  any 
denomination  whatever. 

"  Do  you  know  that  fever  positively  inspires 
you,  and  that  your  'Hymn  to  Suffering'  has 
much  struck  me  ?  It  is  a  Byronian  strain.  But 
do  not  go  and  choose  such  subjects  for  poetry, 
I  pray  you,  or  represent  yourself  as  crucified  on 
that  hopeless  Calvary,  where  sufferings  say  to 
you,  Thou  wilt  not  escape  us,  fatality  stamped 
thee  in  thy  cradle,  thou  belongest  to  us.  It  is 
true,  we  are  all  born  as  it  were  dedicated  to 
misery.  Every  one  suffers  from  something ; 
but,  like  the  first  martyr,  if  we  be  Christians 
while  we  suffer  we  see  heaven  opened.  Oh, 
faith,  faith  !  nothing  else  comforts  me  and  makes 
me  comprehend  life.  This  is  speaking  to  you 
without  any  reserve;  'tis  because  I  love  you. 
Adieu  1  I  return  you  a  kiss  as  tender  as  your 
own." 

This  is  what  I  was  writing  this  morning  to  a 
friend  recently  made,  of  whom  I  am  already 
very  fond.  The  tone  I  adopt  with  her  is  not 
that  of  women's  letters  in  general,  has  none  of 
our  light  chat ;  but  it  is  exacted,  it  is  inspired 
by  what  she  expects  from  me.  Alas,  alas  I  poor 
sick  soul ! 


220  Journal  of 

What  is  shyness,  and  whence  does  it  arise  } 
I  have  been  trying  to  lind  out  ;  I  have  asked 
myself  what  it  was  that  made  one  blush,  pre- 
vented one  speaking  or  appearing  before  others, 
and  it  still  remains  a  mystery  to  me.  This  very 
morning,  having  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  M.  le 
Cure,  who  most  certainly  is  not  alarming.  I 
could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  go  'into  the 
sacristy.  What  folly  !  one  is  aware  of  it  and 
suffers  from  it  ;  I  don't  know  what  it  is  that 
chokes  one,  compresses  one  so  that  the  blood 
seems  to  leave  off  circulating  and  to  rush  to  the 
heart,  which  keeps  beating  furiously. 

8th.  —  Poor  Lili  !  she  is  dying  ;  I  have  just 
heard  that  she  is  dying  of  consumption.  Heart- 
sorrows  have  killed  her  ;  she  is  sinking  beneath 
the  many  blows  that  have  shaken  her  these  ten 
years  past.  It  is  from  Paul  that  we  got  the 
melancholy  tidings,  and  he  asks  one  of  us  to  go 
to  the  sufferer,  who  wishes  for  us.  We  shall 
go  next  week,  after  Faster.  This  is  Palm  Sun- 
day. I  have  just  placed  mine  in  the  chapel, 
you  know  where,  below  Saint  Theresa.  It  will 
be  withered  next  year,  alas  !  and  so  will  many 
things  besides  !      I  must  write  to  Louise. 

(jlh.  —  A  letter  from  Caroline  at  last  !  I 
know,  I  hear.  I  read  that  you  are  going  on  quite 
well.     What    delight  !     but    must    I    also  read. 


Eugenie  de  Gueiin.  221 

"  Maurice  is  sad,  he  has  an  under-current  of 
sadness  that  I  strive  to  dispel,  I  read  it  in  his 
eyes  ".?  .  .  .   My  poor  friend,  what  can  be  the 
matter  with  thee,  if  it  be  not  fever  that  oppresses 
thee  ?    Art  not  thou  satisfied  with  thy  life,  never 
so  sweet  before  ?     Art  not  thou  happy  with  that 
good  and  beautiful  girl   who  loves   thee,   with 
your  union  drawing  near,  with  a  future  to  look 
to  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  do  believe  that  nothing  pleases 
thee  ;  a  charm  once  tasted,  it  is  over,  exhausted. 
Perhaps  I  am  mistaken,  but  I   seem  to  see  in 
thee  a  something  which  poisons  thee,  thins  thee, 
will  kill  thee  if  God  do  not  deliver  thee  from 
it.     How  you  grieve  me  I     How  you  do  grieve 
me!     If  I  could   be  of  use  in  anyway,  —  but 
we  are  far  apart !     Else  you  would  tell  me  what 
ails  you,  and  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  de- 
pression  that  you  took  with  you  hence.     Is  it 
regret  at  leaving  us  ?    That  is  a  sorrow,  but  not 
a  consuming  one  ;  and  then  to  leave  sisters  for 
a   betrothed,  —  to   go  from   the  sweet   to   the 
sweeter,  is  a  thing  easily  got  over.     But  I  will 
not  inquire  or  say  so  much.    We  shall  see,  alas  ! 
we  shall  see.     I  have  mournful  forebodings. 

Swallows,  oh,  swallows  flying  by  !  The  first 
I  have  seen.  I  am  so  fond  of  these  lovers  of 
the  spring,  these  birds  that  follow  after  the 
sweet  sun, — after  songs,  perfumes,  verdure.     I 


222  Journal  of 

do  not  know  what  there  is  in  their  wings  that 
makes  me  so  delighted  in  watching  them  as  they 
lly  J  I  could  spend  a  long  time  thus.  I  think  of 
the  past,  of  the  time  when  we  used  to  pursue 
them  into  the  hall,  to  lift  a  plank  of  the  garret 
in  order  to  see  their  nest,  to  touch  their  eggs, 
their  young  ones  ;  pleasant  memories  of  child- 
hood, with  which  everything  here  is  fraught  if 
one  comes  to  look  at  it.  Walls,  flowers,  birds, 
all  have  these  associations.  Some  little  chickens 
have  just  been  hatched,  and  are  chirping  away 
by  the  fireside.  That,  too,  gives  pleasure. 
Livery  birth  brings  joy  with  it. 

io//j.  —  The  date  has  been  put;  one  must 
therefore  write  a  something.  What  will  it  be  ; 
what  will  this  sheet  of  paper  bear?  Nothing  at 
all ;  no  one  has  come,  nothing  has  been  done, 
nothing  happened  in  our  solitude.  But  for  the 
song  of  a  bird  or  two,  sound  of  life  there  has 
been  none,  and  a  splendid  sun  has  brooded  over 
the  stillness  ;  I,  sitting  in  my  room,  knitted  away 
at  a  pair  of  stockings  for  Jeanne-Marie,  reading 
the  while.  I  was  reading  about  the  wonderful 
epoch  of  Saint  Louis,  that  period  when  men 
saw  so  great  a  king  and  such  gre.a  saints. 

215/.  —  I  come  from  Alby  ;  I  have  just  left 
our  dear  Lili  in  the  churchyard.  What  a  sor- 
row, what  regrets,  what  a  blank,  what  memor: 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  223 

My  God  !  to  see  those  one  loves  die  ;  to  say  to 
one's  self,  It  is  all  over,  thou  wilt  never  see  her 
more,  no,  never  ;  eternity  between  us  !  but  a 
blessed  eternity  I  hope.  This  it  is  that  consoles. 
My  friend,  what  would  become  of  us  but  for 
this,  but  for  a  little  faith  within  the  soul  ?  It  is 
that  which  sustains  it,  prevents  it  from  falling 
into  an  abyss  of  grief  or  despair.  Lili,  my  holy 
Lili,  how  blessed  I  believe  her  to  be  !  how  I 
seem  to  see  her  in  infinite  glory,  unchangeable 
peace,  assured  repose.  It  is  she  who  is  pitying 
us  —  we,  her  friends  —  whom  she  sees  in  this 
poor  world,  in  pain,  agitation,  anguish  !  Oh, 
how  I  saw  her  suffer  ;  but  how  serenely,  poor 
martyr  I  Accordingly  every  one  called  her  a 
saint ;  they  read  it  on  her  face,  which  became 
quite  heavenly  and  beautiful  after  her  death. 

I  did  not  see  her  then,  but  a  short  time  be- 
fore. Kneeling  by  her  bedside,  I  read  her 
Bossuet's  prayers  for  the  dying,  which  I  had 
taken  with  me  on  purpose.  When  I  left  on 
Holy  Thursday,  I  was  well  aware  that  it  was  to 
see  her  die,  and  thought  of  those  provisions  for 
her  soul,  a  last  sign,  alas  !  of  my  affection.  I 
took  this  book  with  me,  too,  for  always  I  think 
of  thee,  and  I  wanted  to  write  down  the  death  ; 
but  it  was  impossible  to  do  anything  but  remain 
and  pray  with  the   sufferer.     On   my  arrival   I 


224  Jour ihil  of 

found  thy  letter  which  Mimi  had  forwarded  me. 
What  a  delight  at  any  other  time  !  You  are  bet- 
ter; you  are  happy,  alive,  —  thoroughly  alive,  you 
tell  me.  But  this  other  death  spoils  all,  —  sad- 
dens me  so  much  that  I  am  nut  susceptible  of 
any  joy.  It  is  not  that  I  am  in  tears,  or  violent 
grief:  it  is  a  calm,  internal  sorrow,  —  a  grief  that 
I  know  not  how  to  describe  ;  but  assuredly  it 
is  grief,  for  I  loved  Lili,  and  I  have  lost  her. 
.  .  .  It  was  on  Tuesday,  the  17th  of  April, 
at  midnight  ;  I  had  left  her  at  four  o'clock. 
Papa  would  not  let  me  see  her  afterwards,  and 
carried  me  away  to  Madame  Combes',  where 
for  two  days  I  met  with  the  most  cordial  hospi- 
tality. Nerine  de  Tonnac,  my  old  friend,  was 
with  me,  my  kind  companion  by  night  and  day. 
I  am  very  grateful  to  her  for  all  she  did  for  me 
on  this  occasion.  I  must  write  to  Caro,  then  I 
will  return  here  if  I  can. 

2;//).  —  I  was  unable  to  do  so  for  three  days, 
and  even  now  it  is  but  for  a  moment  that  I  have 
run  off  here.  Lili,  I  have  Lili  always  in  my 
thoughts,  and  feel  impelled  to  speak  about  her. 
When  I  hear  the  bells.  I  recall  the  holy  prayers 
she  used  to  put  up  in  church,  and  even  here  in 
this  little  room  ;  when  I  look  at  the  sky,  I  re- 
mind myself  that  she  is  there,  and  ask  her  for 
many  things.       Friends   have    no   doubt    much 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  225 


power  with  God.      Here  comes  M.  F ,  a 

visit  I  rather  like  ;  we  shall  speak  of  Lili.  To- 
morrow is  a  day  of  great  solemnity  at  Andillac, 
a  first  communion.  Augustine,  young  as  she  is, 
is  of  the  number  of  happy  children.  Some  time 
hence  she  would  indeed  have  been  better  in- 
formed, but  M.  le  Cure  prefers  innocence  to 
knowledge,  and  I  hold  that  he  is  right.  The 
worthy  man  will  have  scope  for  all  his  good- 
shepherd  zeal,  all  his  tender  chanty,  to-morrow. 
It  is  a  blessed  day  for  him  too. 

29/ft. —  What  a  sweet,  simple,  pious,  and 
touching  ceremony  I  I  have  only  time  to  say 
this,  and  to  declare  that,  of  all  festivals,  the 
one  I  delight  in  most  is  a  first  communion  in  a 
country  district,  — God  bestowing  Himself  sim- 
ply on  children.  Miou,  the  little  Franconil  de 
Gaillard,  and  Augustine,  were  exquisite,  both  in 
innocence  and  beauty.  How  pretty  they  looked 
under  their  little  white  veils,  when  they  returned 
weeping  from  the  holy  table  I  Divine  tears  ! 
Children  united  to  God,  who  can  tell  what  was 
passing  at  that  moment  in  their  souls  ?  M.  le 
Cure  was  admirable  in  his  unction  and  gentle- 
ness ;  it  was  the  Saviour  saying  to  children, 
"  Come  unto  me."  Oh,  how  lovingly  he  ad- 
dressed them  !  and  then  how  he  recommended 
to  their  care  that  white  robe,  that  innocence 
vol.  1.  — 15 


226  Journal  of 

with  which  they  were  clothed  !  Poor  children, 
what  risks  before  them  !  I  kept  saying  to 
myself,  ••Which  of  you  will  tarnish  it  first  r" 
They  are  not  going  to  Paris,  indeed  ;  but  earth 
is  everywhere  soiled,  everywhere  evil  is  found, 
seduces  and  leads  away. 

md  May.  —  Yesterday,  the  ist  of  May,  I 
was  unable  to  write  anything,  and  yet  it  was  a 
beautiful  day  both  on  high  and  here ;  bright 
sunshine,  great  chorus  of  birds,  and  three  let- 
ters ;  Antoinette,  Marie  de  Thezac,  and  Caro 
met  in  my  grasp.  I  love  them  all  and  their 
letters,  but  Caro's  seem  to  me  sister's,  the  same 
tenderness  and  kind  feeling  for  thee  and  for  us. 
It  is  charming  to  have  friends  of  the  kind,  de- 
voted and  disinterested  ;  they  are  not  often  to 
be  found.  Since  Victor  and  Philibert  left,  we 
have  had  no  heart  friends.  Then,  again,  the 
Pastor  is  quite  devoted  to  us  ;  he  came  to 
spend  the  day,  and  showed  himself  cheerful  and 
obliging.  In  the  evening  I  was  better;  quiet 
cheerfulness  does  one  good,  and  I  like  all  who 
introduce  it  here.  On  this  occasion  I  repaid  it 
with  a  little  tribute  of  amiability.  This  is  how 
it  was  :  M.  le  Cure  has  charged  himself  with 
the  whole  decoration  of  the  church,  for  the  ar- 
rival of  the  Archbishop  who  is  coming  over  for 
a  confirmation.      He  wanted  mottoes,  asked  me 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  227 

for  some,  and  I  could  not  say  him  no.  I  don't 
like  refusing.  It  teased  me  a  little,  for  I  am 
not  fond  of  mottoes,  which  are  always  stupid 
things.  I  made  mine  in  patois  to  save  the 
dignity  of  French  —  and,  besides,  it  is  the  lan- 
guage of  our  country  districts.  The  day  before 
yesterday  wrote  to  me.  I  am  not  satis- 
fied about  her  health.  Oh,  the  harm  our  pas- 
sions do  us,  how  they  shatter  body  and  soul  ! 
There  is  no  recovery  from  them,  unless  God 
helps  us.  Will  He  help  her  ?  My  advice  has 
but  little  effect.  Then  who  knows  what  thou 
art  doing,  for  thy  part  ?  All  these  things  dis- 
tress me  sorely. 

May  }rd.  —  We  are  just  come  from  the 
village,  from  paying  a  visit  to  Romiguieres,  who 
is  very  ill.  I  fear  that  he  will  not  get  over  it. 
Thus  our  neighbours  are  leaving  us,  one  after 
the  other.  After  the  Vialarette,  this  good  man, 
who  was  another  of  our  retainers.  I  regret 
them ;  these  worthy  souls  are  better  friends 
than  is  commonly  supposed,  or  than  we  meet 
in  the  world.  Devotedness  is  not  always  the 
attribute  of  the  highest  rank.  Thus  ends  this 
book,  which  is  tolerably  filled  with  mourning, 
three  deaths  so  near  each  other.  My  God  !  who 
knows  which  of  us  will  follow  next  ?  At  least 
these  three  were  ready  to  give   their  great  ac- 


228  Journal  of 

count,  were  good  Christians,  good  souls.  Ro- 
miguieres  himself  requested  to  have  M.  le  Cure 
sent  for  in  the  night.  Having  received  the 
viaticum,  he  soon  became  delirious. 

Go  under  lock  and  key,  little  book  of  mine. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  229 


VII. 

Evening  of  the  yd  of  May  (1838). 
ATOTHING  of  any  interest  since  morning, 
^  '  except  the  birth  of  a  lamb,  and  this  new 
book,  which  begins  to  the  song  of  the  nightin- 
gale and  in  presence  of  two  vases  of  flowers 
that  perfume  my  little  room.  It  is  a  delight  to 
write  in  the  midst  of  such  fragrance,  to  pray,  to 
think,  to  let  the  soul  have  its  own  way.  This 
morning  I  brought  in  these  flowers,  to  give  my 
table  the  look  of  an  altar,  with  a  cross  in  the 
middle,  and  to  keep  the  month  of  May  here. 
I  take  pleasure  in  this  devotion.     Es  neyl.1 

<)th.  —  I  am  tired  of  writing  :  two  long  letters 
have  made  my  hand  ache,  and  so  I  shall  not  put 
down  much  here  ;  but  I  want  to  note  a  beau- 
tiful day,  calm,  sweet,  fresh  —  a  true  spring- 
morning.  Everything  is  singing  and  blossom- 
ing. We  have  just  returned  from  a  walk,  Papa, 
I ,  and  my  dog,  —  Lili's  pretty  little  pet :  dear  little 
creature  !  it  never  leaves  me  ;  when  I  sit  down,  it 
jumps  upon  my  knee,  —  when  I  walk,  it  follows 
me  closely.  One  would  say  that  it  understood 
1  It  is  night. 


230  Jour n til  oj 

me,  that  it  knew  I  was  to  replace  its  mistress. 
We  brought  back  white,  violet,  and  blue 
flowers,  which  have  made  us  a  beautiful  nosegay. 

I  broke  off  two  to   send  them    to    E in  a 

letter  :  they  arc  Ladies  of  eleven  o'clock  ;  prob- 
ably they  get  their  name  from  opening  then. 
as  other  flowers  do  at  different  hours,  charming 
country  timepieces,  floral  clocks,  marking  such 
sweet  hours.  Who  knows  if  the  birds  do  not 
consult  them,  do  not  regulate  their  going  to 
bed,  their  meals,  their  meetings,  according  to 
the  opening  and  shutting  of  flowers  r  Why  not  ? 
Everything  harmonises  in  nature  ;  secret  rela- 
tions unite  the  eagle  and  the  blade  of  grass,  and 
the  angels  and  ourselves  in  the  order  of  mind. 
I  shall  have  a  nest  under  my  window  ;  a  turtle- 
dove has  just  been  cooing  on  the  acacias,  where 
there  was  a  nest  last  year.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
same  bird.  The  spot  suited  her,  and,  like  a 
good  mother,  she  once  more  trusts  her  cradle 
to  it. 

jlh.  —  They  came  this  morning  at  four 
o'clock  to  ask  Papa  for  planks  to  make  poor 
Romiguieres"  coffin.  We  are  losing  all  our 
friends  of  the  Pausadou.  Two  deaths  in  a  few 
days  !  How  sudden,  both  in  the  case  of  La 
Vialarette  and  in  this  ! 

After   having   written   to    Marie,    Antoinette. 


Eugenie  de  G tier in.  231 

and  Caro,  night  has  come,  and  I  am  going 
hence,  but  feeling  more  tranquil,  more  rested 
than  when  I  came.  Nothing  does  me  so  much 
good  as  writing,  because  then  I  forget  myself. 
Prayer  has  the  same  calming  effect,  and  even 
better,  since  it  infuses  a  certain  sweetness  into 
the  soul. 

\2th.  —  For  five  days  I  have  not  written  a 
line  here,  and  meanwhile  leaves,  flowers,  roses, 
have  come  out.  There  is  one  just  under  my 
forehead,  which  perfumes  me,  the  first  rose  of 
spring.  I  like  to  mark  the  day  of  this  fair  ar- 
rival. Who  can  tell  how  many  springs  I  thus 
find  again  in  books,  in  some  rose-leaf,  on  which 
I  date  the  day  and  year  ?  One  of  these  rose- 
leaves  wended  its  way  to  the  Isle  of  France, 
where  it  gave  great  pleasure  to  that  poor 
Philibert.  Alas  !  like  him,  it  will  have  disap- 
peared now.  Though  I  regret  him,  it  is  not 
that  exactly,  but  I  know  not  what,  that  saddens 
me  and  keeps  me  languid  to-day.  Poor  soul, 
poor  soul  !  what  ails  thee,  then  ?  what  dost 
thou  want  ?  Where  is  thy  remedy  to  be  found  ? 
Everything  grows  green,  blossoms,  sings  ;  the 
whole  air  is  balmy,  as  if  it  proceeded  from  a 
flower.  Oh,  it  is  so  beautiful  !  Let  us  go  out. 
No,  I  should  be  alone,  and  a  beautiful  solitude 
is  not  o-ood  for  us.     Eve  showed  us  this  in  the 


2  \2  hui  ii  il  oj 

garden.  What  is  to  be  done,  then  }  Shall  I 
read,  write,  pray  ;  place  a  basket  of  sand  on  my 
head,  like  the  good  hermit,  and  walk  }  Yes  ; 
exertion.  labour  is  wanted  to  occupy  this  body 
that  injures  the  soul.  I  have  kept  too  quiet  to- 
day, which  is  bad  for  me,  which  gives  time  to 
settle  to  a  certain  depression  within  me. 

Why  is  it  that  I  am  depressed  r  Have  I  not 
all  I  want,  all  I  love,  except  thee  ?  Sometimes 
I  think  that  it  is  the  idea  of  the  convent  that 
makes  me  so.  that  attracts  and  saddens  me.  I 
envy  the  happiness  of  a  Saint  Theresa,  of  Saint 
Paula  at  Bethlehem.  If  I  could  but  find  my- 
self in  some  holy  solitude  1  .  .  .  the  world  is 
not  my  sphere.  My  future,  too,  would  then  be 
settled  ;  now  I  do  not  know  what  it  may  be. 
What  sort  of  a  sister-in-law  shall  we  have  .-  I 
have  two  friends,  who,  after  their  father's  death, 
received  their  dismissal  from  the  old  home;  and 
I  find  that  so  hitter  !  And  then,  again,  there  is 
heaven,  that  is  more  certainly  secured  in  retire- 
ment. These  are  my  reasons,  not  thine  :  let  us 
separate  just  now.  I  will  not  say  anything  to 
thee  till  I  am  more  tranquil  ;  I  should  say  nothing 
right.     Adieu  until   .   .   . 

Here  I  am  this  evening  with  three  letters. 
from  Euphrasie,  Marie  and  Lucy.  —  young  girls 
very  unlike  each  other,  but  having  each  her  spe- 


Eugenic  de  Gucriii.  233 

cial  charm.  Wc  women  are  as  varied  as  flowers, 
and  we  are  not  sorry  for  it. 

14th.  —  No  writing  yesterday,  it  was  Sunday. 
To-day  is  Saint  Pacome,  the  father  of  monks. 
I  have  just  read  his  life,  which  is  very  beauti- 
ful. These  lives  of  recluses  have  a  charm  for 
me,  especially  such  of  them  as  are  not  quite 
beyond  imitation.  These  last  one  admires  as 
one  would  the  Pyramids.  In  general,  however, 
one  gets  some  good  from  them  when  one  reads 
them  with  discrimination  ;  even  the  most  ex- 
aggerated actions  are  heroic,  and  encourage  de- 
votedness  and  the  admiration  of  what  is  lofty. 

But  in  spite  of  this,  for  many  people  the 
'  Lives  of  the  Saints  '  do  seem  to  me  dangerous 
reading.  I  should  not  recommend  them  to  a 
young  girl,  nor  even  to  some  who  are  not  young. 
Books  have  so  much  power  over  the  heart, 
which  sometimes  goes  astray  even  from  piety. 
Alas !  what  an  example  of  this  we  have  seen  in 
poor  CI...  How  much  care  should  betaken 
of  a  young  person,  of  her  books,  her  pen,  her 
companions,  her  devotions  !  All  these  require  the 
tender  watchfulness  of  a  mother.  If  I  had  had 
mine,  I  can  recall  much  I  used  to  do  at  the  age 
of  fourteen  which  she  would  not  have  allowed. 
I  would  have  done  anything  in  God's  name, 
would   have  flung   myself  into  a   furnace  ;  and 


234  Journal  of 

certainly  the  good  God  did  not  require  that  :  He 
does  not  will  the  harm  done  to  one's  health  by 
that  ardent  hut  mistaken  piety  which,  while  de- 
stroying the  body,  often  leaves  many  delects  of 
character  untouched.  Accordingly,  Saint  Francis 
de  Sales  used  to  say  to  the  nuns  who  asked  his 
leave  to  walk  barefoot,  "Change  your  heads, 
and  keep  your  shoes.'" 

i  ;//j.  —  A  visitor  came  yesterday,  to  cut  our 
talk  short  ;  I  take  it  up  again  on  account  of  an 
anxiety  I  have  in  my  heart.  It  is  caused  by 
your  letter,  which  renews  my  alarm  about  your 
health.  Why  are  you  taking  ass's  milk  r  why  do 
you  say  that  the  spring  will  set  you  up  again  r 
Is  it  not  so  ?  You  are  really  less  well  than  you 
told  us  at  first.  People  in  health  do  not  talk  of 
remedies.  They  are  deceiving  us  ;  you  deceive 
us.  The  air  of  Paris  does  not  agree  with  thee  : 
it  will  kill  thee  ;  it  killed  poor  Victor.  I  tremble 
lest  there  should  be  this  additional  resemblance 
between  you.  My  God,  remove  these  sad  ideas 
from  me  :  My  friend,  I  should  much  like  to 
have  a  letter  from  thee  ;  the  one  of  to-day  was 
for  everybody,  and  it  is  the  private  and  confi- 
dential that  1  crave.    Affection  feeds  upon  this. 

I  have  been  here  some  time,  but  Mimi  is 
alone,  so  I  am  going  to  join  her.  I  was  amus- 
ing  myself  in    reading  old    letters.      Papa    has 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  235 

arrived  this  evening  with  a  knapsack  full  of 
books  ;  Eran  is  come  from  the  fair  with  pigs, 
"  6chaud£s,"'  and  cheese  ;  a  peillarot 1  and  some 
swallows  have  passed,  — pretty  well  for  a  Cayla 
day.  They  are  now  speaking  about  supper. 
Oh  mouth,  mouth  ! 

i6//z. — We  are  all  going  in  a  caravan  to 
Frauseilles,  to  see  our  bell  cast.  This  expedi- 
tion amuses  me  a  good  deal  ;   I  am  off. 

\~th.  —  Oh,  it  was  not  worth  while  going! 
We  saw  nothing  at  all.  The  bell  was  melted 
and  cast  under  ground  ;  nothing  was  visible  but 
the  furnace,  flame,  and  smoke.  However,  there 
were  crowds  of  people  from  Andillac  and  the 
environs  ;  and  what  amused  me  was  to  see  the 
inquisitive  ones  still  more  taken  in  than  myself, 
and  say  to  them,  Quabds  bist ! 2 

I  am  not  in  a  mood  for  writing ;  there  's  a 
wind  blowing  hard  enough  to  sweep  away 
everything,  —  even  ideas.  But  for  this  I  might 
tell  all  that  occurred  to  me  near  that  furnace  in 
the  way  of  religious,  cheerful,  and  sad  thoughts; 
and  how  many  years,  ages,  baptisms,  funerals, 
weddings,  fires.  I  fused  with  that  bell.  When 
it  comes  to  an  end,  who  knows  what  will  have 
ended  both  in  Andillac  and  the  world  at  large  ? 

1  An  itinerant  vender  of  thread,  needles,  etc. 

2  What  have  you  seen  ? 


236  Jour iid I  of 

The  age  of  bells  is  numbered  by  centuries, 
endless  time,  unless  there  come  an  accident  or 
a  revolution.  Accordingly  we — all  who  stood 
there  —  shall  never  see  it  re-cast.  That  alone 
is  solemn,  never  to  see  again  what  cue  sees  now. 
It  was  thus  I  thought  of  the  church  of  Frau- 
seilles,  where  I  knelt  for  a  short  time,  and  on 
whose  doors,  closed  on  me  for  ever,  I  looked 
long  and  steadfastly  ;  for  in  all  probability  I  shall 
never  return  there.  How  sad  those  words  miM 
be  applied  to  places  to  which  our  heart  clinj 
If  I  were  to  see  the  doors  of  the  Cayla  close 
for  ever,  the  garden  door,  Papa's  door,  the  door 
of  the  little  room  !  ...  Oh,  what  must  it  be 
with  the  door  of  heaven  ! 

Why  art  not  thou  here  >  we  would  share  two 
apples  given  me  by  Julie  de  Gaillard,  whom  I 
went  to  see  as  a  countrywoman.  The  good 
soul  did  not  know  how  to  welcome  me  enough, 
or  to  express  the  pleasure  my  visit  gave  her. 
My  expedition  to  Frauseilles  was  nol  lost  time. 
I  gave  pleasure,  I  caressed  a  little  child  in  its 
cradle;  I  saw.  as  I  passed  the  cemetery,  the 
burial-place  of  our  old  Clairac  friends,  marked 
out  by  an  iron  cross.  Nothing  more  is  to  be 
seen  ;  the  land  of  the  dead  is  soon  reduced  to  a 
level.  What  signify  appearances  r  The  soul, 
the  life,  is  not  there.     Oh.  my  God  !  that  would 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  237 

be  too  heartbreaking  !  I  thought  much  of  thee 
during  all  this,  because  there  was  a  troop  of  cures 
who  all  inquired  for  thee,  and  it  gave  me  much 
pleasure  to  see  thee  so  beloved  by  the  Church. 
Adieu  1     You  see  that  I  have  said  nothing. 

This  evening  at  ten  o'clock.  —  It  is  dark  night, 
but  one  can  still  hear  the  crickets,  the  brook, 
and  a  nightingale  —  only  one  —  who  sings, 
sings,  sings  in  the  gloom.  How  well  this  music 
accompanies  the  evening  prayer  I 

18th.  —  No  possibility  of  getting  out ;  it  rains. 
It  is  a  day  for  reading  and  writing,  in  lieu  of  our 
long  walks,  our  sweet  spring  occupation.  One 
is  out  at  every  moment  ;  we  lead  the  life  of 
birds,  in  the  open  air  under  the  shade.  This  is 
in  itself  a  delight ;  and  then  what  varied  pleas- 
ures at  every  step,  if  only  one  looks  about  one  ! 
Yesterday  Mimi  brought  me  magnificent  ribbon 
grass,  with  white  and  green  stripes,  lustrous, 
satin  like  ;  one  might  have  tied  it  under  one's 
chin.  I  put  it  into  a  vase,  where  I  still  admire 
my  somewhat  faded  ribbon.  They  would  be 
prettier  growing ;  these  fashionable  articles 
ought  not  to  be  taken  out  of  the  woods. 

I  should  like  very  much  to  know  something 
of  botany  ;  it  is  a  charming  study  in  the  country, 
and  full  of  enjoyment.  One  grows  intimate 
with    Nature,    with    the   grasses,    flowers,    and 


238  Journal  of 

mosses,  when  one  calls  them  by  their  proper 
names.  Study  botany,  Maurice  ;  you  will 
teach  it  me.  It  would  be  very  easy  with  a 
Flora.  But  when  will  you  be  here  in  spring  ? 
You  only  come  later  on  ;  and  it  is  not  when 
winter  has  mowed  down  all  the  beauty  of  na- 
ture (according  to  the  expression  of  our  friend 
Saint  Francis  de  Sales)  that  one  can  take  to 
botanising.  No  more  flowers  then  ;  and  it  is 
flowers  that  interest  me,  because  they  are  so 
pretty  on  these  green  carpets.  I  should  like 
to  know  their  family,  their  tastes,  what  butter- 
flies they  love,  what  drops  of  dew  they  require, 
as  well  as  their  hidden  virtues,  that  I  might 
make  use  of  them  at  need.  Flowers  are  good 
for  the  sick.  God  fits  his  gifts  for  so  many  pur- 
poses !  Everything  is  fraught  with  marvellous 
goodness.  See  the  rose,  which,  after  having 
given  honey  to  the  bee  and  sweetness  to  the 
air,  affords  us  a  lotion  which  is  most  soothing 
to  tender  eyes.  I  remember  having  put  com- 
presses of  it  on  yours  when  you  were  little. 
Every  year  we  make  buttles  of  this  rose-water, 
which  our  neighbours  come  to  ask  for. 

But  I  said  this  was  a  day  for  writing.  Writ- 
ing what  -  I  have  no  idea,  but  I  feel  I  could 
write.  If  I  had  but  a  plan,  any  fixed  task  !  I 
should  do  a  little  of  it  daily,  and  that  would  be 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  239 

good  for  me.  The  too  full  sometimes  over- 
flows ;  it  is  better  to  make  a  channel  for  it.  I 
hardly  ever  pour  out  anywhere  but  here,  and 
not  much  even  here  because  .  .  .  paper  flies. 
I  fling  it  Paris-wards,  but  who  knows  where  it 
may  chance  to  fall  ?  Accordingly  I  often  efface 
in   reading  over,  as  you  will   have  seen  in  the 

last  book.     It  was  about  E ;   I  had  allowed 

myself  to  be  carried  away  into  too  lively,  nay, 
even  false  colouring.  I  found  this  out  after- 
wards from  her  letters.  Hers  is  a  passionate 
kindness,  without  any  rancour  or  bitterness ; 
open  in  her  faults,  she  is  a  child  with  a  heart 
of  fire.  I  look  upon  our  intimacy  as  very 
wonderful,  as  coming  from  God,  and  I  attach 
myself  to  this  soul  confided  to  me  by  Him, 
which  says  to  me,  "  Love  me,  help  me  to  go  to 
heaven  !  "  Oh  !  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  her,  I 
will  always  love  her  ;  for  a  holy  friendship  is  but 
an  emanation  from  the  charity  that  never  dieth. 

The  nightingale  of  yesterday  evening  has 
been  singing  all  the  day  long.  What  a  throat 
he  has!  If  he  were  English  I  should  say  that 
he  must  have  laid  a  wager. 

19th.  —  Three  letters  and  the  arrival  of  Eliza. 
It  is  Louise,  Marie,  and  Euphrasie  who  have 
written  to  us.  That  poor  Euphrasie,  so  sad  and 
heartbroken  at  the  death  of  her  dear  aunt,  excites 


240  journal  of 

my  compassion.  Good,  ardent,  tender  as  her 
heart  is,  how  much  she  will  have  to  suffer  now  1 
Lili  stood  to  her  in  the  place  of  mother. 

24//;.  —  One  word  this  evening  that  I  have 
time,  am  alone,  thinking  of  thee,  and  that  it  is  the 
Ascension,  a  glorious,  a  holy  day,  when  the  soul 
rises,  mounts  to  heaven.  But  no,  I  am  very 
well  contented  here  ;  methinks  one  can  never 
wean  one's  self  from  writing.    I  am  called  away. 

26H1.  —  Two  days  between  these  lines,  passed 
without  writing  to  thee,  and  since  have  come 
letters,  birds'  nests,  roses  on  the  terrace,  on  my 
table,  everywhere.  A  hundred  things  have  ar- 
rived from  Gaillac,  —  from  a  greater  distance, 
news  of  the  death  of  the  Prince  of  Talleyrand  ; 
it  was  enough  to  make  one  write  then  or  never, 
but  we  are  making  capes  with  Eliza,  and  the 
world  might  have  gone  by  under  our  needle 
without  our  dropping  it.  What  small  thin 
suffice  one  !  I  am  amazed  at  it,  but  have  not 
time  to  tell  thee  why. 

Evening  of  the  i~lh.  — The  first  Angclus 
rung  by  our  new  bell.  I  have  just  been  listen- 
ing to  it  at  the  dining-room  window,  and  rose 
from  table  expressly  for  this  pleasure,  succeeded 
by  so  many  different  trains  of  thought  that  I 
love.  A  pious  blending  of  joy,  mourning,  time, 
eternity,  cradles,   hearses,   heaven,  God  !     The 


Eugenic  de  Guerin.  241 

bell  announces  all  these,  and  brought  them  all 
into  my  mind  just  now.  Oh,  especially,  espe- 
cially do  I  think  of  the  first  time  it  will  toll  1 
For  whom  ?  Shall  I  note  it  down  ;  and  in  what 
page  }  Perhaps  I  shall  not  be  here  to  note  it. 
Which  of  the  living  can  venture  to  say  to  him- 
self, "  I  shall  speak  of  such  or  such  a  one 
dead  "  ?  My  God  !  we  pass  away  so  fast !  And 
yet  I  am  in  good  health  ;  but  I  see  flowers  put 
quite  fresh  into  a  vase  this  morning,  withered 
and  dying  this  evening.  So  it  is  with  us  :  the 
vase  that  contains  our  life  does  not  hold  more 
than  for  a  day. 

Visits  from  cures  :  of  the  Canton,  of  Vieux, 
and  ours  —  three  very  different  men;  the  one 
without  any  wit  at  all,  the  other  having  flashes 
of  it  now  and  then,  and  the  third  keeping  it  to 
himself.  They  told  us  all  sorts  of  things  con- 
nected with  the  Church,  interesting  enough  to 
hear  and  to  reply  to  for  the  moment.  But  in 
general  it  is  variety  that  makes  conversation 
pleasant ;  the  discussion  of  a  thousand  different 
topics  constitutes  easy  chit-chat,  that  rare  thing. 
No  one  here  can  speak  of  anything  but  his  own 
speciality,  like  the  Auvergnats  of  their  country. 
The  mind  stays  at  home  as  well  as  the  heart. 

Eliza  has  just  left  us,  to  my  great  regret.  All 
departures   are   saddening  ;   to   console   me  to- 

VOL.  1.  — 16 


242  Journal  of 

morrow  I    have   a   very  tender  and   affectionate 
letter  under  mv  eyes  and  in  my  heart.      It  is  not 

from  thee,  but  from  E .  who  always  tells  me 

in  a  thousand  ways  that  she  loves  me,  that  she 
suffers  in  mind  and  body,  and  that  /  know  how 
to  throw  seme  flowers  on  the  too  often  barren 
hours  of  her  life.  Poor  friend,  pour  woman  ! 
how  happy  I  consider  myself  to  be  of  some  use 
to  her!  Accordingly  I  am  going  to  give  her  all 
I  can  of  sweet,  consoling,  and  piously  soothing, 
—  all  the  flowers  possible.  How  she  suffers  ! 
how  much  harm  some  one  has  done  her !  how 
that  inclines  me  to  try  and  restore  her.  to  point 
out  remedies  !  I  do  not  despair  of  it,  for  God  is 
helping  us.  He  is  evidently  coming  to  the 
rescue  of  this  poor  soul.  From  letter  to  letter 
her  disposition  seems  to  improve,  her  faith  to 
revive,  her  heart  to  turn  more  heavenwards  ; 
and  that  gives  me  every  reason  to  hope.  Each 
morning  she  says  a  prayer  to  the  Virgin,  that  I 
sent  her.  "  At  eight  o'clock."  she  tells  me,  "  we 
shall  be  together  before  God,"  for  I  say  the 
same  prayer  for  her  at  the  same  hour  with  full 
confidence.  The  blessed  Virgin  who  has  cured 
thee  is  well  able  to  cure  her  too.  There  lies  my 
hope  and  my  remedy.  .  .  .  Above,  above  ! 
Ah  !  what  do  We  find  here  below  .-  All  we  can 
do  is  to  cause  ourselves  su  lie  ring. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  243 

Then  she  goes  on  to  ask  me  for  a  little  poetry, 
and  I  shall  send  her  some  ;  I  grant  everything 
to  the  sick.  She  wants  it  that  she  may  set  it 
to  music, — a  still  more  intimate  spiritual  bond 
between  us;  spring  and  the  nightingale,  the 
musician  and  the  poet,  so  methinks  it  should 
always  be.  But,  alas  !  it  is  so  long  since  I  have 
written  anything  ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  succeed, 
to  attain  to  the  beautiful,  which  is  so  high  and 
so  far  from  our  poor  mind  !  One  feels  that  it  is 
made  for  us,  that  we  have  once  reached  it,  that 
this  grandeur  was  our  own,  and  that  we  are  now 
no  longer  anything  more  than  dwarfs  in  intel- 
lect. Oh.  the  fall,  the  fall,  that  everywhere  one 
meets  traces  of!  I  could  continue,  if  I  were  not 
obliged  to  go  and  lay  out  the  table.  Jeanne- 
Marie  is  at  the  fair,  happier  than  .   .   . 

Than  may  be  struck  out.  I  don't  know  what 
I  was  about  to  say  when  I  left  my  book  in  the 
lurch.  I  return  to  it  this  evening  to  speak  about 
a  letter  from  FeTicite  which  says,  "  Maurice  still 
coughs."  Ever  since  I  feel  that  cough  in  myself  ; 
/  have  a  pain  in  my  brother's  chest.  Oh,  when 
shall  I  be  easy  !  when  shall  I  be  so  about  the 
dear  health,  and  the  dear  soul  which  is  sick  too  ! 
The  one  does  not  depend  upon  thyself  ;  the  other 
does,  and  yet  you  let  me  go  on  always  suffering, 
always  trembling  for  what  interests  me  most. 
Adieu,  good-night,  naughty  one  that  I  love  ! 


244  Journal  of 

30//;.  —  Is  it  the  nosegays  that  have  attracted 
so  many  bees,  and  turned  my  room  into  a  hive  .- 
Ever  since  the  morning  there  has  been  nothing 
but  a  buzzing  and  a  sound  of  wings  that  I  do 
not  dislike.  I  am  fond  of  bees,  and  would 
willingly  let  them  take  up  their  quarters  in  my 
room,  were  it  not  for  the  sting,  which  spoils  the 
poatic  insect.  Yesterday  I  got  a  good  hearty 
stmg,  which  makes  me  rather  shy  of  bees,  and 
forces  me,  too,  to  admit  that  what  makes  honey 
may  often  be  itself  very  wicked. 

31s/.  —  It  is  this  evening  leaning  on  my  win- 
dow, with  the  nightingale  singing  and  in  sight 
of  my  acacias  all  blossom  and  fragrance,  that  I 
bid  adieu  to  the  month  of  May,  sweet  month, 
all  flowers  and  verdure.  Alas !  everything  comes 
to  an  end.  It  is  the  end,  too,  of  the  month  of 
Mary,  —  beautiful  spring-tide  devotion  that  it  is  ! 

is/  of  June.  —  Spent  the  day  at  Cahuzac. 
Found,  on  my  return,  a  report  of  the  '  Annals 
of  the  Propagation  of  the  Faith.'  Any  work 
that  comes  to  the  Cayla  is  an  event,  —  more 
especially  this,  whose  pages  are  compiled  by 
saints  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

2nd.  —  M.  Jules  de  Villefranche  came  to  see 
us  ;  he  seemed  to  me  grown,  stronger,  better 
looking  than  usual,  with  all  his  wonted  gentle- 
ness. Always  gay  and  chatty  and  asking  for 
you.     The  good  little  youth  ! 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  245 

Caro,  the  darling,  has  written  to  Mimi. 
What  pleasure  a  letter  from  Paris  gives  us  ! 
But  then,  to  find  that  you  cough,  that  every 
one  says  so,  that  perhaps  you  cough  more  than 
they  say,  —  how  sad  that  is  !  And  then  you  do 
not  write  to  me,  not  a  word  about  those  private 
matters  we  wot  of.  Oh,  we  are  separated 
indeed  I  I  no  longer  know  anything  of  thee. 
God  knows  what  this  costs  me,  and  how  I 
rank  this  silence  among  my  trials.  Poor  heart, 
made  on  purpose  for  sufferings  !  It  is  their 
dwelling-place,  and  the  whole  of  it  is  occupied 
just  now.  You  are  not  their  only  cause  ;  others 
come  which  no  one  guesses  at,  —  griefs  of  the 
soul,  which  sometimes  suffers  strange  things. 
But  God  sends  them,  permits  them  for  our 
good.  The  saints  tell  us  that  it  is  fire  that 
purifies,  that  re-melts.  I  believe  it ;  we  some- 
times need  to  be  put  back  into  the  crucible. 
Some  one  used  to  say  to  me,  "  At  those  times 
do  as  Saint  Jerome  did,  —  write. "  Let  me  write, 
then.  Poetry  occupies  the  mind  most  entirely. 
If  I  were  to  try  ? 

O  God,  my  God,  whom  I  adore  and  love, 
To  say  my  God  is  joy  all  joys  above,  — 

'T  is  heaven  to  me  come  down  ; 

And  never  'neath  her  bridal  crown 
Did  queen  beside  her  king  more  rapture  prove. 


246  Journal  oj 

The  lowlii  st  spot  whence  I  can  pray  to  Thee, 
Mv  Lord,  my  li^ht.  is  worth  all  earth  to  me; 
'Neath   Thy  all-seeing  eye, 
Like  wild  flower  'neath  the  sunny  sky, 
My  soul  expands,  triumphant,  happy,  free. 

What  says  my  soul,  and  how  dost  thou  reply, 
What  says  to  flame  the  flame,  to  dawn  the  sky, 
What  say  two  streams  that  meet, 
What  heavenly  converse  used  to  greet 
Eve  in  the  Garden  when  the  Lord  drew  nigh? 


4//;.  —  Flageolets,  hautboys,  big  drums,  night- 
ingales, turtle-doves,  loriots,  blackbirds,  chaf- 
finches, pretty  but  grotesque  symphony  going 
on  just  now.  It  is  the  noisy  music  of  Andillac 
in  honour  of  the  voting  festival,  which  makes 
itself  heard  here  and  blends  with  that  of  the 
birds.  At  all  events  we  have  no  lack  of  con- 
certs in  our  fields ;  you  like  those  of  Paris 
without  being  always  able  to  go  to  them,  and  I. 
without  going,  find  myself  at  ours.  Bird-notes 
on  every  side,  from  all  the  trees,  and  my  charm- 
ing musician,  the  nightingale  of  the  other  even- 
ing. Still  singing  near  the  walnut-tree  in  the 
den.  These  to  me  are  pleasures,  charms.  I 
know  not  how  to  express.  Hence  some  one 
said  to  me.  "  You  are  happily  constituted  for 
a  country  life."     I  feel    that  this  is  true,  and 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  247 

that  my  nature  harmonises  with  flowers,  birds, 
woods,  the  open  air,  the  sky,  —  with  all  that  lives 
out  of  doors,  great  or  graceful  works  of  God. 

jth. —  Oh,  my  God  !  my  poor  Louise.  They 
have  just  told  me  that  her  father  is  dying  or 
dead.  Erembert,  who  was  at  Gaillac  when 
this  news  came,  saw  Charles  set  off  in  a  great 
hurry.  What  a  good  friend  we  are  losing  1  what 
an  excellent  man !  I  am  going  to  write  to 
Louise. 

A  new  book  sent  by  Louise,  the  '  Meditations 
of  Father  Judde,'  intended  for  nuns,  a  much- 
esteemed  work  that   I    have  long  wished  for. 

jth. — The  death  of  M.  de  Bayne  is  certain 
to-day.  There  is  another  beautiful  soul  in 
heaven.  He  had  an  overflowing  faith,  he 
steeped  everything  in  God.  Then,  again,  he 
was  an  uncommon  man  as  regards  heart  quali- 
ties ;  he  could  act  the  part  of  a  friend,  even 
against  his  own  interests.  His  fortune  has  suf- 
fered from  his  devotedness  in  more  than  one 
case  of  misfortune. 

8th.  —  Rousou  1  the  servant  of  poor  Lili ! 
What  pleasure  this  visit  gave  me  !  There  are 
sad  pleasures,  such  as  speaking  of  the  dead,  see- 
ing those  they  loved.  She  brought  me  a  letter 
from  Euphrasie,  and  one,  too,  from  Louise, 
who  tells   me,  li  My  father  is  very  well.'"     This 


2.js  Journal  oj 

was  almost    on  the  eve  of  his  death.      Death 
comes  quickly. 

••  I  consider  your  enthusiam  '  for  ugliness  an 
extreme,  however  good  the  mood  in  which  it 
seems  to  have  seized  you.  The  love  of  beauty 
is  too  natural  in  us  to  give  way  all  of  a  sudden 
to  the  love  of  ugliness,  except  in  the  case  of  a 
miracle  of  conversion,  such  as  we  have  seen 
among  the  saints.  Sublime  transformation,  un- 
veiling of  the  divine  beauty  which  ravishes  the 
soul,  makes  it  forget  all  created  beauty,  nay, 
even  hate  that  of  the  body  as  an  occasion  of 
sin.  What  renunciation,  what  refinement  !  which 
of  us  women  has  got  to  that  ?  I.  who  am  not 
pretty,  cannot  wish  to  be  ugly.  See  where- 
abouts I  am  with  my  '  sublime  contempla- 
tions ; '  they  have  not  availed  to  lift  me  above 
vanity.  Oh  !  do  not  let  us  speak  of  contem- 
plating ;  it  is  the  state  of  the  blessed  in  heaven. 
To  us  poor  sinners  it  is  much  if  we  know  how 
to  abase  ourselves  before  God,  to  groan  over 
our  wants,  and  confess  our  faults  to  Him.  It 
is  grand  to  soar,  but  to  look  into  one's  own 
heart  is  very  useful.  One  sees  what  is  going 
on  within — a  knowledge  indispensable  to  our 
spiritual  progress.  ...  In  piety  there  is  an 
ideal    side,    which     tills    the    head    with    heaven, 

1  Extract  <>f  ;i  lettei  i"  Madam*    \     '•    M. 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  249 

angels,  and  seraphic  notions,  without  making 
any  impression  on  the  heart,  without  inclining 
it  to  love,  and  to  the  practice  of  God's  law. 
And  without  this,  though  '  we  spoke  with  the 
tongue  of  angels,'  we  should  only  be  sounding 
brass  and  tinkling  cymbals.  This  passage  of  an 
Epistle  has  always  struck  me,  and  made  me 
fear  to  speak  of  piety  without  having  enough  of 
it  in  my  soul.  But  you  always  assure  me  that 
my  letters  do  you  good, — which  encourages 
me,  makes  me  think  that  it  is  God's  will  that  I 
should  write  to  you,  renders  me  happy  to  believe 
that  I  give  you  some  happiness. 

"  Even  the  throne  has  had  its  saints.  We 
need  only  reflect  upon  Saint  Louis  to  believe  in 
the  most  difficult  salvation.  I  take  especial 
delight  in  the  history  of  his  sister,  the  blessed 
Isabella.  —  so  humble  in  greatness,  so  withdrawn 
from  pleasures,  so  innocent  and  so  penitent, 
giving  to  the  poor  what  she  received  for  her  own 
luxuries,  the  delight  both  of  her  brother  and 
his  court  on  account  of  the  sweetness  and  gra- 
ciousness  that  made  every  one  mourn  her  when 
she  retired  into  the  house  of  Sainte-Claire,  at 
Longchamp,  to  die.  High  and  touching  exam- 
ples these  of  what  grace  can  do  in  willing 
hearts,  —  of  the  triumph  of  faith  over  the  world  ! 
In  the  matter  of  salvation,  will  is  power,  accord- 


250  Journal  oj 

ing  to  the  motto  of  Jacutot.  Who  was  that 
Jacotot  r  A  man.  no  doubt,  who  fully  compre- 
hended the  might  of  the  will,  —  that  lever  that 
can  lift  man  up  to  heaven. 

"  You  arc  right  in  saying  that  I  am  happily 
constituted  for  a  country  life.  It  is  my  proper 
place  ;  elsewhere  I  should  probably  be  less  happy. 
In  this  I  recognise  the  kind  care  of  Providence, 
who  orders  everything  lovingly  for  its  creatures, 
and  does  not  bid  the  violet  be  born  in  the  streets. 
You  may  fancy  me  leaning  upon  my  window, 
contemplating  all  this  verdant  valley  in  which 
the  nightingale  sings  ;  then  I  go  to  look  after 
mv  chickens,  to  sew,  spin,  embroider,  in  the 
great  hall  with  Marie.  And  so,  from  one  thing 
to  another,  the  day  passes  by.  and  we  reach 
evening  without  any  ennui." 

And  now,  my  dear  Maurice,  I  turn  to  thee  I 
Alas  !  no,  not  yet  !  some  one  comes  in.  How 
many  broken  threads  1  Half  of  the  one  above 
is  already  far  away  ;  I  should  not  join  it  together 

tin  but  for  a  scrap  of  poetry  that  I  am  send- 
ing and  want  to  leave  here  for  thee.  But,  firsl 
of  all,  the  lesson  to  my  goddaughter  Lucy. 

Since  that  lesson,  has  come  a  sorrow.  My 
dear  little  dog,  my  pretty  Bijou,  is  ill,  —  so  ill 
that  I  fear  he  will  die.  Poor  creature  1  how  op- 
pressed  he  is,  —  how  he  moans,  licks  my  hands, 


Eugenic  de  Guerin.  251 

and  seems  to  say,  "  Help  me"!  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  for  him.  He  takes  nothing  but  a  few 
drops  of  gum  syrup,  which  he  licks  off  my 
ringers  ;  this  is  how  I  feed  him,  half  sugar,  half 
caresses.  Alas  !  what  is  the  use  of  one's  fond- 
ness ?  I  shall  not  save  him.  This  would  make 
me  cry,  if  I  did  not  repress  my  tears.  It  is 
foolish  to  weep  for  an  animal,  but  the  heart  has 
often  neither  wisdom  nor  dignity.  And  then 
my  Bijou  is  so  pretty,  so  good-natured,  so  grace- 
ful, so  precious,  coming  from  Lili.  A  dog  is 
such  a  cheering,  caressing,  tender  thing,  —  so 
completely  one's  own  !  I  do  believe  I  shall 
shed  tears  over  him,  but  it  shall  be  in  my  little 
room,  the  scene  of  all  my  secrets. 

One  of  my  friends  once  asked  me  to  pray  for 
her  sick  dog  ;  I  laughed  at  her  and  considered 
her  devotion  unbecoming.  To-day  I  should  do 
as  she  did  ;  I  no  longer  find  such  a  prayer  in- 
congruous, so  much  does  the  heart  influence  the 
mind.  I  was  not  fond  of  Bijou  then  ;  now  my 
conscience  is  not  offended  at  the  idea  of  ap- 
pealing to  God  for  the  preservation  of  an  animal. 
Is  there  anything  unworthy  in  any  creature  of 
His,  and  may  we  not  ask  Him  for  the  life  of  all 
those  we  love  ?  I  am  inclined  to  believe  this,  and 
that,  with  the  exception  of  evil,  we  may  request 
everything  from  God,  from  the  good  God.    This 


25  2  Journal  of 

familiar,  this  popular  name  of  the  Deity  inspires 
me  with  boundless  confidence.  What  a  differ- 
ence between  it  and  the  Supreme  Being,  as 
great  as  between  Rose  Drouille  and  Voltaire ! 
But  what  would  be  the  use  of  a  philosophic  faith 
when  one  was  unhappy  ?  What  could  we  ex- 
pect from  an  inaccessible  being,  so  far,  so  far 
from  man,  that,  while  adoring,  one  cannot  love 
Him?  and  yet  the  heart  needs  to  love  what  it 
adores,  and  to  adore  what  it  loves,  —  which  is 
why  God  made  Himself  flesh  when  He  dwelt 
among  us.  It  is  from  this  infinite  condescen- 
sion that  we  derive  our  confiding  faith.  If  you 
only  knew  all  that  one  asks  and  sometimes 
obtains!  Miracles  prove  this.  I  believe  in 
miracles  of  healing,  and  in  many  others  well 
authenticated,  like  those  of  which  Saint  Augustine 
and  Bossuet  speak,  or  those  which  take  place  in 
our  own  day.  I  must  now  return  to  my  poor 
Bijou,  who  has  certainly  led  me  far. 

is/  of  Julr.  —  My  poor  little  dog  is  dead.  I 
am  sad  and  have  no  inclination  to  write. 

2nd.  —  I  have  just  had  Bijou  put  into  the  box- 
bordered  inclosure,  amongst  flowers  and  birds. 
I  shall  plant  a  rose-tree  there,  and  call  it  the  dog' 
rose.  I  have  kept  the  two  little  front  paws,  so 
often  laid  on  my  hand,  mv  feet,  my  knees.  How 
pretty  his   attitudes  were,  whether   caressing  or 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  253 

at  rest  !  Every  morning  he  used  to  come  to  the 
foot  of  my  bed  to  kiss  my  feet  as  I  rose  ;  then 
he  would  go  and  do  the  same  to  Papa.  We 
were  his  two  favourites.  All  this  comes  back 
to  me  now  ;  the  past  melts  the  heart .  Papa  re- 
grets him  as  much  as  I.  He  said  he  would 
have  given  ten  sheep  for  this  dear  pretty  little 
dog.  Alas  !  everything  must  leave  us,  or  we 
leave  everything. 

A  letter  has  just  come  which  occasions  me  a 
very  different  distress.  The  heart's  affections 
are  as  varied  as  their  objects.  How  unlike  my 
sorrow  for  Bijou  to  that  I  feel  about  a  soul  that 
is  losing  itself,  or  that  at  least  is  in  danger !  Oh, 
my  God,  how  this  pierces  and  terrifies  one  from 
the  point  of  view  of  faith  ! 

6th.  —  Always  blanks;  hindrances  to  writing. 
For  three  days  I  have  hardly  put  down  my 
needle.  First  of  all,  there  was  a  child's  frock 
that  we  were  making,  —  a  pretty  little  pink  frock, 
that  I  stitched  with  pretty  thoughts.  Childhood 
and  its  attire  are  so  sweet  !  Such  pretty  curls 
will  fall  over  that  little  body  ;  such  white  round 
arms  will  fill  those  sleeves,  such  dainty  little 
hands  peep  out  of  them  ;  and  the  child  herself 
is  so  pretty,  and  called  Angela  besides !  f 
thoroughly  enjoyed  working  for  her. 

But  to-day,    mending  up   old    linen  wearied 


254  Journal  of 

me  ;  neither  heart  nor  mind  was  in  mv  work  ;  I 
kept  thinking  gloomily  of  thee.  Alas!  we  have 
received  your  letter  of  bad  tidings  !  The  long- 
expected  ship  only  brings  disappointments,  sad- 
ness. Caro  must  be  much  put  out,  much 
distressed,  at  seeing  your  union  thus  rendered 
doubtful.  Who  knows  whether  you  will  have 
enough  to  marry  her  ?  This  question  involves 
your  whole  future ;  accordingly  Papa  has 
weighed  it  deliberately.  You  will  hear  his 
opinion  in  his  letter.  This  is  only  from  me  to 
thee.  You  cannot  think,  how  much  this  uncer- 
tainty, this  suspense  about  your  destiny,  occupies 
me,  —  I  will  not  say  overwhelms,  for  I  trust  in 
Providence.  How  have  I  offered  up  to  God  all 
my  happiness  in  exchange  for  thine  1  l!  my 
prayer  were  but  heard  ;  if  some  day  thou  wcrt 
to  tell  me.  "  I  am  content  !  "  I  thrill  at  the  idea 
of  this  happiness  that  I  might  witness  ;  and 
even  if  I   did  not  !   .   .   . 

7//;.  —  I  have  done  nothing  but  hear  mass  this 
morning,  and  write  the  whole  day  almost,  to 
thee,  to  Raynaud,  and  to  Caroline.  I  low 
many  thoughts  have  Rowed  from  my  heart,  and 
how  full  it  is  still  !  I  am  so  occupied  with  your 
future  I  I  have  done  nothing  but  see  you,  hear 
you,  all  night — all  of  you  unhappy,  and  groan- 
ing over  your  broken-off  engagement.     I  trust 


Eugenie  de  Gueriu.  255 

it  will  not  come  to  this.  Caroline  and  her  aunt 
wrote  to  us  yesterday,  but  nothing  good  or 
hopeful.  Their  letters  are  full  of  reverses,  and 
nothing  else.  How  all  this  distresses  us,  if  you 
only  knew  it,  my  friend  !  I  wrote  to  thee  to- 
day, and  am  now  putting  down  what  it  is  very 
useless  to  put  down  here.  When  you  read  this 
Journal,  all  will  be  decided.  Will  it  be  happi- 
ness or  unhappiness  ?  God  knows.  Nothing 
human  looks  encouraging. 

o//j. — The  first  day  of  harvest.  Nothing  in 
the  country  is  so  charming  as  those  fields  of 
ripe  corn,  with  their  exquisite  gilding.  If  the 
wind  blow  ever  so  gently,  the  ears,  rippling  one 
over  the  other,  make  the  effect  of  waves  ;  the 
great  field  to  the  north  is  a  golden  ocean.  Papa 
may  be  seen  at  every  moment  looking  out  of 
the  hall-window,  contemplating  his  beautiful 
crops  —  sweet  joy  this  of  the  agriculturist. 

10//2.  —  Spun  my  distaff  full,  and  read  a  sermon 
of  Bossuet's.  We  have  the  continuation  ;  but 
thou  art  not  there  to  help  me  to  discover  the 
beautiful  passages.  I  have  therefore  got  to 
gather  all  I  can  unaided.  If  you  were  to  write 
to  me,  if  I  were  less  anxious  about  you,  I 
should  do  everything  with  more  pleasure ;  a 
heart-grief  is  a  leaven  which  makes  everything 
rise  sour  —  turn  bitter,  as  it  were.     So  with  my 


256  Journal  of     % 

life,  since  you  have  taken  to  torment  it  :  oh, 
how  I  wish  I  were  freed  from  it  !  how  often  I 
say  to  God,  "  If  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass 
from  me  !  "  Yes,  my  friend,  I  put  it  away,  and 
take  it  up  again  ;  I  see  thee  sometimes  happy, 
sometimes  unhappy  ;  I  wish,  and  do  not  wish, 
thy  marriage.  The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done  ! 
our  human  will  must  lose  itself  in  this;  else 
there  is  no  repose,  nor  light,  nor  security. 
Lucy,  my  goddaughter,  who  has  none  of  these 
cares,  is  there  waiting  for  her  lesson. 

That  over,  a  passage  of  the  Sermon  on 
Honour  that  I  have  been  reading  occurs  to 
my  mind,  and  I  will  jot  it  down  here  ;  it  relates 
to  human  vanity,  and  all  belonging  to  it.  "  Ten 
times  a  count,  ten  times  a  lord,  possessor  of  so 
much  wealth,  master  of  so  many  persons,  minis- 
ter of  so  many  councils,  and  so  on;  neverthe- 
less, let  him  multiply  himself  as  he  will,  one 
single  death  is  sufficient  to  lay  him  low.  But 
this  he  thinks  not  of;  and  in  that  infinite  ag- 
grandizement that  our  vanity  pictures  to  itself, 
it  never  occurs  to  him  to  measure  himself  by 
his  coffin,  which  is  vet  the  only  correct  stand- 
ard.'* What  a  man  !  referring  everything  to  the 
tomb  !  No  one  has  been  able  to  render  death 
so  striking  and  solemn  as  Bossuet  !  he  crushes 
you  to  earth. 


Eugenic  de  G itc riu.  257 

I  am  going  to  join  Papa  in  the  hall.  I  have 
been  writing  to  the  chirp  of  young  chickens, 
who  are  pecking  the  grass  below  my  window, 
and  to  the  joyous  voices  of  the  reapers  in  the 
hemp-fields.  Happy  people,  singing  in  the  sweat 
of  their  brow  ! 

wth. — The  exquisite  things  that  are  to  be 
seen  in  the  fields,  that  I  have  just  seen  !  A  fine 
field  of  corn,  full  of  reapers  and  sheaves  ;  and 
of  these  sheaves  one  only  standing,  and  shading 
two  little  children,  and  their  grandmother  giving 
them  their  breakfast  of  milk. 

12//Z.  — What  shall  we  have  on  this  page  to- 
day ?  Nothing  has  happened  but  the  grasshop- 
pers' chirp.     We  will  wait  till  evening. 

Evening,  at  twilight.  I  write  with  a  cool 
hand,  having  just  returned  from  washing  my 
gown  in  the  brook.  It  is  pleasant  to  wash 
there,  to  watch  the  passing-by  offish,  wavelets, 
blades  of  grass,  leaves,  scattered  flowers  ;  to 
follow  all  that,  and  I  know  not  what  besides, 
down  the  current.  So  many  things  occur  to 
the  washerwoman  who  knows  how  to  read  the 
secrets  of  the  brook.  It  is  the  bath  of  little 
birds,  the  mirror  of  heaven,  the  image  of  life, 
a  running  road,  the  font  of  baptism  ! 

16th.  —  At  length  comes  a  little  calm,  a  little 
hope  of  thy  marriage.  Mile.  M.  informs  us  of 
vol.  1.  — 17 


2$S  Journal  of 

facts  that  will  decide  it.  I  sec  good  prospects, 
a  pretty  fair  beginning  of  life  ;  this  makes  us  all 
happy.  No  one  at  the  Cayla  but  lias  been  sad 
for  the  last  three  weeks.  The  suffering  of  one 
member  is  felt  by  the  whole  body.  1  low  dif- 
ferent my  heart  feels  I  I  have  got  rid  of  a 
nameless  bitterness,  that  spoiled  all  my  pleasure 
in  thinking  or  speaking  of  thee.  I  have  had 
ample  occasion  to  observe  how  a  name,  spoken 
or  thought,  may  bring  sadness  or  joy.  A 
cricket  is  chirping  in  the  hall  ;  to-day  there  is 
a  degree  of  cheerfulness  everywhere.  I  must 
now  write  to  Antoinette.  Mimi  has  char 
me  to  inform  her  of  the  arrival  of  Philibert's 
widow.  Poor  cousin  from  the  Isle  of  France! 
she  has  come  to  seek  refuge  with  her  relations. 
Her  son  is  to  be  sent  to  thee.  Methinks  his 
father  is  with  him,  and  recommends  him  to  our 
care.  I  shall  soon  write  to  thee  respecting  this 
dear  little  child. 

Do  not  suppose  that  it  is  as  amusing  to  write 
to  a  grand  vicar  as  in  my  little  book,  or  to 
Louise,  to  Caro.  to  my  friends,  when  letters 
of  affection  come  all  ready-made  from  the  heart. 
But  that  other  had  to  be  concocted  ;  and  noth- 
ing is  so  wearisome  as  that  mental  effort,  8 
clear  and  concise  statement  of  facts,  —  nothing 
ever  gave  me  such   trouble.      I    can  only  write 


Eugenie  Je  Guerin.  259 

when  I  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to  say  ; 
something  comes  and  inspires  me ;  the  pen 
marks  it  down,  and  that  is  all.  But  parish 
matters  are  not  to  be  dealt  with  thus.  However, 
it  is  done  in  spite  of  myself.  This  shows  one 
that  good  will  and  patience  can  get  over  any- 
thing. And  then  I  have  saved  Papa  a  fatiguing 
task  ;  it  was  about  matters  of  business  between 
Alos  and  Andillac. 

By  way  of  relaxation  I  have  just  been  resting 
my  head  on  a  sheaf  of  corn  down  yonder  in  the 
field  of  Delarue,  at  Sept-Ponts,  amongst  shep- 
herds and  cows,  little  Esteve  prattling  away. 
He  was  talking  to  me  about  his  alphabet,  — 
for  he  goes  to  school,  and  fancies  himself  the 
cleverest  child  there.  Lous  laysse  toutds  darre  I1 
Simple  pride  of  six  years  old,  which  is  too  sure  to 
grow.  The  boy  is,  in  fact,  very  superior  to  the 
others  ;  but  what  will  become  of  this  ill-directed 
intelligence?  It  is  the  way  of  developing  him 
which  makes  the  man.  How  many  great  villains 
have  had  the  elements  of  great  heroes  in  them  ! 
Poor  little  Toinou,  who  will  become  a  naughty 
boy  !  If  I  could,  I  would  take  him  away  from 
his  father. 

20th.  —  A  mingled  life,  —  Martha  and  Mary. 
After  mass,  which  I  heard,  this  being  the 
1  I  leave  them  all  behind. 


260  Jam  lid/  of 

anniversary  of  our  grandmother's  death,  I  set 
myself  down  to  sewing  some  kitchen  aprons, 
and  mending  Erembert's  trousers ;  all  this  blent 
with  reading  of  different  kinds,  —  history  and 
poetry,  —  that  Greek  poetry  of  Andre  Chenier, 

whose  '  Be  gar1  and   'Sick   Man'  I  like. 

Caroline's  nosegays  come  !  I  hear  this  from 
the   hall,  and   fly   thither. 

They  are  charming, — our  nosegays  for  the 
Virgin.  Sweet  Caro  !  how  I  wish  I  had  her 
there  to  embrace  !  Letters  from  Mane,  Gabri- 
elle,  and  M.  Periaux  at  the  same  time  1  How 
many  events  for  a  Cayla  day  !  Accordingly,  my 
heart  is  full,  quite  full,  of  flowers,  endearments. 
and  of  pious  feelings,  for  that  good  Normandy 
cure,  who  speaks  to  me  in  so  religiously  kind  a 
way.  But  he  speaks  to  me,  too,  of  Lili,  and 
there  comes  death  to  overshadow  my  little  joys  ! 
Now,  I  am  thinking  of  that  poor  cousin,  who, 
however,  is  in  heaven,  as  M.  Periaux  tells  me  we 
may  hope.  He  ou^ht  to  know,  —  he  who  was 
her  director,  who  was  intimately  acquainted  with 
that  intelligent  lily. 

215/. —  A  long  letter  to  Euphrasie  ;  this  was 
my  first  pleasure  this   morning  ;   now   let   us  go 
and  wait  for  others  in  the  hall.     What  will  occur 
to-day?    Oiv  d  >es  not  know,  but  one  hoj 
our  very  ignorance  as  to  happiness  constitutes 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  261 

its  charm  :  this  is  so  true  that  God  has  made 
Paradise  a  mystery  to  us.  Those  who  want  to 
understand  everything  do  not  know  how  to  be 
happy. 

What  has  occurred  ?  Nothing  but  the  sound 
of  flails  falling  in  cadence  on  the  threshing-floor ; 
which  cadence,  blent  with  the  crowing  of  cocks 
and  chirping  of  grasshoppers,  has  an  intense  rus- 
ticity about  it  that  I  like. 

22nd.  —  Oh,  joy,  joy  !  A  letter  from  Ray- 
naud deciding  thy  marriage,  asking  Papa  to  let 
me  come  to  the  wedding.  I  shall  not,  I  fear,  be 
able  to  witness  the  auspicious  day  ;  but  provided 
it  comes,  provided  I  know  of  your  happiness, 
though  at  a  distance,  I  am  content,  —  I  bless  God 
with  my  whole  heart.  I  shall  not  forget  that  it 
was  on  Saint  Magdalen's  day  that  this  hope  rose 
in  me ;  how  sweet  it  is  after  the  bitterness 
past !  Maurice,  dear  brother,  how  I  feel  that 
I  am  thy  sister  at  this  moment,  and  for  ever  1 
This  said,  my  little  book  goes  its  way  with 
the  desk  under  the  table,  and  I  to to- 
morrow morning.  I  should  much  like  to  take 
it  with  me  ;  but  where  could  I  keep  it  down  yon- 
der ?  I  shall  take  notes  in  my  heart,  and  then 
put  them  down  here.  Adieu  for  the  present, 
Maurice  and  paper  both.  What  a  pity  to  leave 
you! 


262  Journal  of 

[30//2]. —  Here  I  am  again,  after  a  space 
of  eight  days,  after  a  fall,  after  death  having 
clutched  me,  and  let  me  go  as  Cud  willed.  Oh, 
it  is  indeed  God  who  has  saved  me  !  who  wills 
that  I  should  remain  yet  a  while  on  earth,  here, 
beside  Papa  ;  in  my  little  room  just  now,  that 
I  may  write  to  thee  and  many  others  ;  that  I 
may  make  of  my  life  —  I  know  not  what  that 
is  good,  gentle,  useful,  so  far  as  lies  in  my 
power.  I  told  thee  of  my  adventure  in  my 
letter  of  this  morning  ;  and  now  I  want  to  tell 
thee  my  delight  at  being  able  to  come  at  length 
to  Paris  ;  no,  not  to  Paris,  —  to  thy  wedding  : 
it  is  that  I  am  coming  to  see,  —  that  which 
takes  precedence  in  my  heart. 

What  a  man  Victor  Hugo  is !  I  have  just  been 
reading  some  of  him  :  he  is  divine,  infernal, 
wise,  mad  ;  he  is  the  people,  the  king  ;  he  is 
man,  woman,  painter,  poet,  sculptor;  he  is 
everything  ;  he  has  seen  all,  done  all,  felt  all  ; 
he  amazes,  repels,  and  enchants  me  !  and  yet  1 
hardly  know  him.  except  in  '  Cromwell,'  some 
faces,  '  Marie  Tudor,'  and  a  little  of  '  Notre 
ne.'  I  shall  go  and  see  this  Notre  Dame  in 
Paris.  How  many  things  to  be  seen  for  me 
when  I  emerge  from  my  desert  ! 

The  '<Uh  [August).  —  Francoise,  the  sifter  of 
M.  Limer,  is  come  to  see  me  in  my  solitude,  which 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  263 

is  more  than  ever  solitary  since  Mimi  is  not 
here  ;  she  is  at  Gaillac,  the  dear  sister  !  Mean- 
while, awaiting  her  return,  I  am  charmed  that 
Francoise  should  have  come  to  fill  up  the  blank 
somewhat  ;  she  used,  yoy  know,  to  be  our 
Sunday  companion,  —  so  kind,  lively,  and  gay  ! 
I  find  her  somewhat  changed.  Time  !  oh, 
Time  !  She  left  us  two  years  ago  ;  since  then 
she  has  lost  her  brother,  who  was  drowned, 
and  a  cousin,  a  tall,  handsome  young  man,  whom 
she  had  to  see  reduced  to  nothing,  consumed 
by  suffering,  and  whom  for  three  months  she 
watched  night  and  day.  Poor,  good  girl !  this 
is  what  has  aged  her.  Now  she  is  going  to 
offer  her  life  to  a  convent, — her  tried,  disen- 
chanted life,  —  without  pleasure  in  the  world. 
It  is  thus  that  women  console  themselves,  happy, 
very  happy,  in  that  God  has  provided  for  them 
happiness  in  Himself.  I  have  just  been  writ- 
ins:  her  a  Ions;  letter  about  her  affairs.     Thus  it 

o  o 

happens,  that,  in  occupying  myself  about  these 
retreats  for  others,  I  return  to  thinking  of  them, 
to  saying  to  myself  that  they  will  go  God-wards, 
and  I  into  the  world,  as  Saint  Bernard's  little 
brother  used  to  say  to  his  brothers  setting  out 
for  Citeaux.  Already  a  good  number  of  my 
acquaintance  have  gone  off  in  this  direction. 
And  now  I  am  going  to  write  down,  in   order 


264  Journal  of 

not  to   forget  it,  an   inspiration   of  ni^ht    that    I 
have   approved  by  day. 

In  entering  my  little  room  this  eveninj 
ten  o'clock,  I  am  met  by  the  white  light  of  the 
moon,  which  rises  round  and  full,  behind  a  group 
of  oaks,  at  the  Merix;  there  she  is.  higher, 
higher,  ever  higher,  each  time  I  look  up.  She 
travels  faster  over  the  sky  than  my  pen  over  this 
paper;  but  I  can  follow  her  with  my  eyes. — 
wondrous  faculty  of  seeing,  so  elevated,  ex- 
tended, and  enrapturing.  We  may  enjoy  the 
heavens  whenever  we  will;  even  at  night  from 
my  bed  I  perceive  through  a  chink  in  the  shutter 
a  little  star  that  frames  itself  there  about  eleven 
o'clock,  and  shines  on  me  long  enough  for  me  to 
fall  asleep  before  it  passes  on  ;  hence  I  call  it  the 
star  of  sleep,  and  love  it.  Shall  I  be  able  to  see 
it  in  Paris  ?  I  fancy  my  days  and  nights  will  be 
changed,  and  I  cannot  think  of  this  without 
r  >gret.  To  take  me  hence  is  to  drag  Paula  out 
of  her  grotto  ;  it  must  be  for  thee  that  I  leave  my 
desert.  —  thee  fur  whom,  God  knows,  I  would 
go  to  the  end  of  the  world.  Farewell  to  the 
moonshine,  the  cricket's  chirp,  the  glouglou  of 
the  brook.  I  had  the  nightingale  in  addition  a 
short  time  m,ro  ;  but  some  charm  is  ever  wanting 
to  our  charming  things.  And  now,  nothing  but 
God,  prayer,  and  sleep  ! 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  265 

()th.  —  Could  you  guess  what  is  now  caus- 
ing me  positive  suffering?  It  is  thinking  of 
that  little  queen,  Jane  Grey,  beheaded  when  so 
young,  so  sweet,  so  charming. 

10//1.  —  A  companion  in  my  little  room,  a 
partridge  wounded  in  the  wing,  but  still  very 
agile,  lively,  and  graceful.  It  glides  like  a  rat 
into  every  corner  of  its  prison,  and  is  getting 
tame,  accustoming  itself  to  see  me,  —  so  that 
now  it  will  eat  and  drink  beside  me.  I  should 
like  to  take  it  to  Charles. 

A  slight  indisposition  made  me  throw  myself 
on  thy  bed,  —  that  bed  where  you  lay  for  six 
months  in  the  fever;  where  I  saw  thee  so  pale, 
exhausted,  dying,  as  it  seemed ;  whence  the  good 
God  miraculously  raised  thee  up.  All  this  went 
with  me  to  bed  :  I  saw,  re-saw,  thought,  gave 
thanks,  and  then  fell  into  a  doze,  and  dreamed 
of  being  alone  in  a  desert,  between  a  serpent  and 
a  lion  ;  fright  woke  me.  I  had  never  seen  any 
other  lion  than  that ;  but  it  was  one  most  assur- 
edly. How  do  we  contrive  thus  to  create  in 
our  sleep,  —  we  who  cannot  produce  an  atom  ? 
Is  it  some  reflex  of  divine  power  which  then 
passes  into  our  souls  ?  I  am  going  to  bed,  after  a 
letter  written  to,  and  two  received  from,  Louise, 
my  poor  Louise,  so  loving,  so  lovable,  and  sad, 
since  her  father's  death.     "  I   am  not  one  of 


266  Journal  oj 

those  who  easily  console  themselves.  The  more 
I  weep  the  more  1  want  to  weep  ;  but  I  blend 
you  with  my  tears.'"  Dear  Louise  I  Mimi; 
too,  writes  me  word  frum  Gaillac  that  she  has 
seen  the  picture  ;  that  the  child  Jesus  is  very 
good  indeed,  but  that  the  Virgin's  eves  are  Con- 
sidered strange,  and  her  colour  too  high.  Peo- 
ple do  not  remember  that  it  is  intended  for  a 
lofty  and  dark   position. 

12///.  —  Oh,  the  Virgin  !  the  Virgin  1  There 
she  is  in  the  dining-room,  exhibited  on  the  side- 
board ;  the  whole  house  is  there,  —  Jean, 
J  cannot,  Paul,  the  Shepherd,  and  other  wor- 
shippers like  those  of  Bethlehem,  —  and  the  child 
Jesus  is  smiling  at  them,  divinely  resting  on  1 1^ 
mother's  bosom.  Oh,  Me  is  beautiful,  the  in- 
fant Jesus  ;  delicate,  lovely,  celestial  !  I  delight 
in  looking  at  Him,  now  near,  now  from  a  dis- 
tance, in  all  positions  and  under  all  lights.  I  do 
not  think,  though,  that  this  painting  ought  to  be 
exposed  to  the  broad  daylight  of  a  room;  these 
holy  figures  are  made  lor  the  mysterious  light  of 
a  church. 

\]lh.  —  Joy  upon  joy!  another  letter  from 
Caroline.  More  kindness  ;  all  sorts  of  love  to 
I'apa,  Eran,  Mimi,  and  all  ;  a  box  of  things  for 
us.  Good,  good,  good  sister  that  she  is!  may 
God  return   her  in    blessings   all   that   she  d 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  267 

for  us, —  all  that  I  feel  in  my  heart  towards  her  ! 
My  friend,  how  I  shall  love  this  charming  sis- 
ter !  how  I  do  love  her !  how  I  long  to  hold 
her  in  my  arms  ! 

14/A  —  Only  one  word,  because  I  am  tired; 
because  I  ought  to  sleep,  and  should  not  sleep 
if  I  were  to  write  ;  and  that  body  and  soul 
are  alike  exhausted.  Letters  from  Caroline, 
Louise,  Irene,  Mimi.  My  heart  is  full;  good- 
night 1 

\<,th. —  I  thought  I  should  have  died  last 
night:  a  faintness,  a  numbness,  a  palpitation  of 
the  heart  roused  me  from  my  first  sleep.  I 
shook  myself,  ran  to  the  window,  the  air,  the 
fresh  night,  which  restored  me.  This  attack  pro- 
cured me  a  moment's  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful 
sky,  the  beautiful  stars  that  I  had  been  on  the 
point  of  going  to  see  up  there  ;  then  I  returned 
to  my  bed  with  serious  thoughts  of  death, — 
that  death  which  comes  we  know  not  when. 
Let   us  be  ready. 

i6//z.  —  What  a  pretty  benediction  this  .  .  . 
(no  ink). 

\~th.  —  Come!  ink  at  length!  lean  write; 
ink  I  happiness  and  life.  I  was  dead  for  three 
days  that  the  circulation  of  this  blood  had  been 
arrested  ;  dead  to  my  Journal,  to  thee,  to  inti- 
macy.    My  friend,  my  heart  is   full  of  thee,  of 


268  Journal  of 

Caro,  of  your  happiness,  of  this  box,  these 
.us,  these  bonnets  trimmed  with  flowers, 
these  white  gloves,  these  little  shoes,  these  open- 
ik  stockings,  this  embroidered  petticoat.  Oh, 
I  have  looked  at,  touched,  worn,  dressed  my 
heart  out  in  all  these  a  hundred  times  since  they 
came,  an  hour  ago.  Oh,  kind,  kind  and  charm- 
in-  sister;  India  had  indeed  a  sweet  treasure 
there,  that  God  bestows  on  thee  !  What  a  genial 
nature  I  What  pleasure  in  giving  pleasui 
Never  was  wedding  present  bestowed  with  more 
delight,  or  received  with  more  gratitude  ;  mine 
overflows  my  powers  of  expression  ;  it  is  one 
of  the  things  that  God  sees  and  knows.  From 
Him,  the  giver  of  all  ^ood,  I  a>k  for  her  all 
blessings  and  eternal  happiness.  I  shall  take 
greal  delight  in  my  pretty  dresses,  though  dress, 

in  general,  me  little  pleasure  :    but  in  these 

there  is  something  sweeter  and  more  beautiful 
than  mere  outward  appearance, — something  more 
than  vanity.  They  are  the  gift  of  thy  betrothed  ; 
it  is  a  sister's  robe  that  she  is  giving  me.  1  wrote 
to  her  the  moment  I  had  seen  the  things.  My 
heart  <,'oesout  towards  her  ;  I  want  her  to  know 
at  once  the  pleasure  she  has  given  me.  and  gb 
us  all,  with  her  altar  flowers,  her  tablecloth,  her 
Virgin,  her  dresses,  and  so  many  beautiful, 
graceful   things.      I  low  I   love   her!      May  God 


Eugenie  de  Gueriu.  269 

bless  her;  God.  who  does  not  let  a  cup  of  cold 
water  given  remain  without  reward  ! 

This  is  what  came  to  us  from  Gaillac,  with  ink, 
a  letter  from  Mimi,  pepper  and  oil  ;  this  is  tell- 
ing thee  everything.  I  may  also  add  that  Eran 
has  killed  a  hare  and  a  partridge,  and  has  brought 
me  back  two  quails  alive  and  suffering.  What- 
ever suffers  belongs  to  me,  and  has  always  done 
so.  As  a  child  1  used  to  take  possession  of  all 
the  lame  chickens  ;  to  do  good,  to  relieve,  is 
such  an  intimate  delight,  —  the  very  marrow  of 
a   woman's  heart. 

I  end  where  I  began,  with  that  benediction  of 
animals  on  the  day  of  Saint  Roch,  so  impressive, 
so  religious  a  ceremony  to  those  who  discern  in 
it  God  surrounding  man  with  so  many  creatures 
consecrated  to  His  service  ;  true  image  of  crea- 
tion, this  gathering  of  animals,  of  them  all,  even 
down  to  the  pig.  I  kept  thinking  of  Bijou, 
whom  I  should  certainly  have  had  blessed. 

[No  date.]  —  Yesterday,  Sunday,  spent  the 
day  in  church,  or  on  the  road  to  it  ;  and  while 
walking  thought  of  the  Hermit,  and  the  Angel 
counting  his  steps,  —  a  story  read  in  childhood, 
that  remains  in  my  memory,  and  returns  to  me 
in  my  solitary  walks.  In  the  Garenne-au-Buis 
to  Sept- Fonts,  where  we  have  been  together,  I 
find  myself  again  with  that  heavenly  companion. 


270  Journal  of 

20th.  —  Mimi,  Lucie,  Amelie,  her  cousin, 
I    mtenelles ;    all    these,   entering   the   hall   at 

once,  take  me  hence.  I  must  go  to  the  kitchen. 
the  drawing-room,  to  little  newly  hatched  chick- 
ens, which  occupy  me  a  good  deal  :  this  is 
more  than  enough  to  prevent  my  writing.  I  shut 
up  my  book  in  the  cupboard. 

Ten  o'clock  in  the  evening.  —  What  I  see  is 
too  pretty  not  to  tell  thee  of;  our  young  ladies 
are  down  there  beside  the  brook,  singing,  laugh- 
ing, revealing  themselves  now  and  then  under 
the  tree-tops,  like  night  nymphs,  lighted  up  by 
the  Hash  of  matches  struck  by  Jeannot,  their 
running  lantern.  They  are  out  crab-fishing, 
Erembert  wishing  to  give  this  pleasure  to  these 
young  girls  whom  everything  amuses.  I  pre- 
ferred being  here  to  watch  their  sport,  and  tell 
thee  about  it.  I  hear  them  laugh  and  laugh 
continually  ;  that  age  is  a  permanent  joy.  As 
for  me,  I  need  rest,  to  go  to  bed,  instead  of 
wandering  along  the  damp  grass  that  borders  a 
brook.  Adieu,  Maurice  !  we  have  talked  much 
of  thee  while  displaying  the  wedding  presents. 
I  would  not  leave  thee  if  I  could  help  it.  One 
might  well  spend  the  night  here  in  describing 
all  that  is  to  be  seen  and  heard  in  my  delectable 
little  room,  all  that  come  to  visit  me  in  it,  —  small 
insects,  black  as  night  ;   little  spotted,  scalloped 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  271 

moths,  flying  like  maniacs  about  my  lamp.  There 
is  one  burning,  another  going,  a  third  return- 
ing, and  on  the  table  something  like  a  grain  of 
dust  is  walking  about.  How  many  inhabitants 
in  this  small  space  !  A  word,  a  look,  to  each 
of  these, — a  question  respecting  their  kindred, 
their  way  of  life,  their  home, — would  lead  us 
into  infinity  ;  better  to  say  my  prayers  here  at  the 
window  before  the  Infinite  of  Heaven. 

22nd.  —  Madame  and  Monsieur  de  Faramond, 
a  letter  from  Louise,  yesterday  one  from  Antoi- 
nette, pleasure  and  happiness  !  To-morrow  I 
set  out  with  the  young  ladies.  Adieu,  my  book  ! 
but  perhaps  1  shall  take  it  with  me,  that  I  may 
still  find  myself  with  thee. 

Oh,  these  old  castles,  with  their  great  halls, 
their  antique  furniture,  their  wide  windows 
from  whence  one  sees  the  whole  sky,  their  por- 
traits of  lovely  ladies  and  noble  lords  !  There 
is  an  indescribable  pleasure  in  looking  about  one 
here,  in  wandering  from  room  to  room.  Oh, 
I  delight  in  old  castles,  and  for  the  last  day  or 
two  I  have  been  enjoying  myself  in  one.  I  am 
writing  to  thee  from  Montels,  in  an  out-of- 
the-way  room,  where,  fortunately,  I  have  found 
some  ink  ;  for  I  forgot  to  bring  any  with  me, 
and  it  would  have  been  a  great  privation  to  me 
not  to  have  had  the  power  of  noting  down  any- 


272  Journal  of 

thing  of  what   goes  on  within   me  in  an  abode 
so  much  to  my  taste.     I  enjoy  it,  ton,  all  the 
more    because    there    are    childish    associations 
linked  with   every  turn;    and    you   know   how 
much  pleasure  thai  fad  gives  me.     I  was  nine 
years  old  when    I  came  to  Montels  before.      On 
arriving  now,  I  recognised  the  church  beneath  its 
tall  elm-tree,  where  I  used  to  go  and  jump  about 
in  the  shade  ;  then  the  great  court-yard,  and  then 
the  small  one  with  its  well,  the    glazed  door  of 
the  saloon,  and  in  it  the  grand,  beautiful  ladies  I 
used  to  be   so  fond  of  looking  at  :  one,  by  the 
side  of  a  meditating  Capuchin,  presents  a  strik- 
ing contrast,  but  this  I  had  not  remarked  before 
as  I  do  now.     In   childhood  the  effects  of  re- 
flection make  little  impression.    We  go  out,  we 
run,  we  wander  here  and  there  in  the  woods,  in 
superb   avenues   of  chestnut-trees,   in   immense 
meadows.      A  charming  country  life,  if  we  were 
not  so  much  alone.    There  are  only  Madame 
Paulo,  her  daughter,   Louise  de  Thezac,  and   I 
here,  with  the  addition  of  little  Henri  to  amuse 
us.      A  child    at   all   events  makes  a    noise,  and 
this  the  interior  of  an   old  castle  requires  ;   else 
come  vague  terrors,  ghosts,  magicians.     There- 
is  more  than  one   legend  of  the   kind  connected 
with  this  castle.      Formerly  a  nun   .   .   . 

They    took    my    inkstand    away,    which    pre- 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  273 

vented  me  writing  down  my  ghost  story  ;   but 
here  is  a  legend  which  is  quite  as  good  :  — 

The  Mountaineer's  Ballad. 

Sing  Dc  Profundis,  sisters  dear, 

The  bell  is  ringing  for  my  love  ; 

She's  gone  alone  to  heaven  above, 
And  I  am  left  to  mourn  her  here. 

Heaven  is  a  better  place,  they  say, 
Than  earth,  that  only  yields  us  sorrow  ; 

Ring,  bell,  for  my  beloved  to-day, 
Thou 'It  ring  for  me  to-morrow. 

I  saw  a  fiery  meteor  dart ; 

My  shepherdess,  oh,  was  that  thee  ? 
Canst  thou  be  sentenced  where  thou  art 

To  suffer  on  account  of  me  ? 
I  saw  at  evening  on  the  heath, 
The  rainbow's  quivering  light  beneath, 
Dancing  before  me  here  and  there, 
A  fairy  form  as  light  as  air. 

Methought  I  knew  my  Rose  again. 

Alas  !  if  she  had  then  to  pay 
By  agonies  of  fiery  pain 

For  the  brief  raptures  of  a  day  ! 
Ring  for  my  love,  ring,  holy  bell ; 

Open  for  her  the  heavenly  way ; 

Call,  call  on  all  to  come  and  pray 
Who  knew  my  Rose  and  loved  her  well, 

And  to  release  me  from  my  sorrow, 

Bell,  ring  for  me  to-morrow. 

vol.  1.  —  18 


274  Journal  of 

I  had  not  thus  survived  thec,  dear, 

Nor  borne  my  bitter  grief  a  day, 
If  thou  hadst  left  a  mother  b<  re, 

After  thy  death  for  thee  to  pray. 
But  soon  .is  from  the  earth  set  free 

Thy  soul  shall  wing  its  upward  llight, 
Soon  as  Saint  Peter  opes  to  thec 

His  golden  gate,  his  realms  of  light, 
Then  "  Come  to  prayer,"  the  bell,  I  ween, 

Once  more  to  passers-by  shall  say, 
"  It  was  for  Rose  you  prayed  yestreen  ; 

Pray  for  her  lover's  soul  to-day." 

I  [e  said,  and  soon  his  last  hour  came 

And  set  him  free  from  sorrow; 
While,  sadly  calling  on  his  name, 
I  heard  his  mother  say  the  same, — 
"  Bell,  ring  for  me  tomorrow." 

Charles,  Charles  arriving  fom  Paris!  Every- 
body is  running  to  meet  him.  1  shall  have 
tidings  of  thee.  No  letter;  you  are  very  eruel 
not  to  write  to  me,  —  to  me  who  write  to  you 
from   everywhere. 

30//;.  —  News,  letters  :  Mimi  and  Papa  have 
written  to  me  and  my  friend  De  Maistre ;  Etienne 
bringing  all  this,  and  carrying  me  off  with  him 
to  Rayssac.  Dear  Louise  will  be  surprised  and 
rejoiced  to  see  me. 

4//i   September.  —  At    R  for  four  days 

amidst  all  the  delights  of  friendship  and  moun- 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  275 

tains.  Talking  with  Louise  and  walking  to  and 
fro  have  so  taken  up  all  my  time  that  I  have 
written  nothing  for  thee.  I  have  only  answered 
Marie's  letter,  —  that  other  friend  who  makes 
me  find  another  Rayssac  at  the  Coques.  I  find 
a  good  deal  of  similarity  between  Louise  and 
Marie  ;  they  have  the  same  ardent  and  lofty 
character,  the  same  devotedness,  the  same  high 
and  powerful  intellect,  the  same  affection  for 
me.  To  be  beloved  by  two  such  —  whence 
comes  this  happiness  to  me  ? 

A  walk,  a  pilgrimage,  half-riding,  half-walking 
to  St.  Jean  de  Jeanne,  a  little  church  hidden 
under  the  hills,  like  one  of  the  cells  of  Lebanon. 
We  found  in  it  a  pretty  statue  of  the  Virgin, 
and  a  picture  of  Saint  John  full  of  nature  and 
expression.  It  is  not  often  that  one  meets  with 
such  good  execution  in  country  places.  Here 
the  homes  are  poor  and  the  churches  rich  ;  faith 
enables  this  eminently  believing  population  to 
understand  how  much  better  it  is  to  adorn  the 
house  of  God  than  that  of  man,  the  eternal 
dwelling  than  the  dwellings  of  a  day.  In  these 
mountains  and  valleys,  where  imagination  so 
delights  itself,  I  have  found  heart-memories 
as  well,  paths  which  you  traversed  three  or 
four  years  ago.  How  many  steps  taken  since 
then  1 


276  /on nuil  oj 

$th.  —  Don't  write  at  night  if  you  want  to  be 
read.  This  morning  I  discovered  how  I  had 
been  scribbling  yesterday  evening  ;  but  between 
us  everything  is  excusable.  You  will  forgive 
me  my  bad  writing,  as  I  do  you  for  not  writing 
to  me,  —  a  far  worse  thing  in  my  opinion.  In 
reading  a  'Picturesque  France'  I  have  found 
out  that  the  Nivernais  was  inhabited  in  the  time 
of  Caesar  by  the  Vadicassians  and  the  Rogii  ; 
that  the  inhabitants  of  the  Nievre  are  hos- 
pitable ;  that  amidst  its  antiquities  have  been 
observed  a  web-footed  statue  of  a  queen,  and 
in  a  marble  quarry  at  Clamecy  a  woman's  hand, 
with  its  bones  turned  to  turquoise.  Then,  a^ain, 
there  is  the  poet,  Adam  Billaut,  of  Nevers. 
Here  I  am  encamped  in  Marie's  country,  and 
shall  be  able  to  speak  about  it  to  her  first.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  I  have  taken  notes. 
Always  some  heart  interest  in  what  one  does 
and  s:i 

But  for  Louise,  who  came  and  lighted  on  this 
page  like  a  butterfly  on  a  Rower,  I    should  have 

me  on  writing  I  know  not  what ;  but  it  would 
not  have  been  worth  my  conversation  with  my 
friend,  those  confidential  matters  whispered  from 
heart  to  heart,  which  are  so  precious  to  friend- 
ship. It  is  of  thee  I  am  thinking  now  ;  of  thee, 
suffering,   pallid,   dying,   consumed  with    fever, 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  277 

and  cured,  raised  up  this  very  day,  the  8th  of 
September,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  a  true  miracle 
of  healing,  the  anniversary  of  which  I  am  going 
to  church  to  bless  over  again. 

A  pitiable  incident  occurred  :  a  poor  mad- 
woman came  like  a  whirlwind  into  the  church, 
flinging  herself  upon  her  knees  before  the  taber- 
nacle, and  then  singing  a  hymn  to  the  Blessed 
Sacrament.  It  was  touching  to  witness,  this 
holy  frenzy,  this  delirious  devotion  to  God,  the 
poor  maniac's  only  love.  At  all  events  she 
will  one  day  be  happy,  when  in  heaven  her 
reason  returns,  and  shows  her  that  the  height 
of  wisdom  is  to  love  what  she  loved  unwisely. 
Many  other  lunatics  will  be  less  well  off.  This 
subject  would  carry  me  a  long  way.  I  must 
now  go  and  make  acquaintance  with  Madame 
de  Bayne  and  her  suite,  who  have  just  arrived 
from  Toulouse. 

She  is  a  sweet,  good,  little  woman,  but  silent 
and  timid,  leaving  one  to  guess  at  qualities  of 
heart  and  head,  and  many  agreeable  accomplish- 
ments. She  paints,  draws,  plays,  embroiders  a 
good  deal,  and  can  thus  give  a  charm  to  the 
rusticity  of  mountain  life,  — a  new  abode  for 
her,  and  rather  an  unfamiliar  one,  —  out  of  the 
world  into  the  desert, — if  she  had  not  some- 
thing wherewith  to  smooth  the  abrupt  transition. 


j;S  Journal  of 

At  kast  these  are  the  reflections  which  occur  to 
me  about  the  position  of  this  young  creature, 
cumin-  as  it  were  from  the  Court  ;  for  she  has 
just  arrived  from  Austria,  where  she  was  with 
the  princes,  whom  M.  de  Monthel  now  never 
leaves.  This  contrast  of  the  past  and  present 
has  struck  me  a  good  deal. 

Louise  tells  me  that  I  can  find  much  to  say 
where  others  could  see  nothing  at  all.  "  Look," 
she  said  ;  "  you  could  say  a  hundred  things 
about  this  "  —  the  latch  of  the  door  that  she  was 
lifting  in  going  away.  Assuredly  one  would 
have  a  good  deal  to  say  and  think  about  that  bit 
of  iron  that  so  many  hands  have  touched,  which 
has  been  raised  with  so  many  different  emotions, 
under  so  many  glances,  so  many  men.  days,  and 
years.  Oh,  the  history  of  a  latch  would  be  a 
long  one  indeed  ! 

I  go  away  to-morrow.  Poor  Louise,  what 
regrets  just  now  !  The  end  of  everything  is 
grief.  It  was  all  joy  a  week  ago,  and  yet  not 
all  joy  either,  for  a  mourning  thought  blent  with 
it  ;  every  moment  we  thought  and  spoke  of  her 
poor  father.  I  missed  him  much  at  Rayssac, 
that  kind  Monsieur  de  Bayne.  who  was  SO  -ood 
and  gentle  a  converser.  I  approached  the 
house  as  if  it  were  a  cemetery,  with  sadn 
and    regret        Hut  company,    excursions,   walks, 


Eugenie  de  Guerin.  279 

diverted  me.  The  hues  of  the  soul  are  fluctu- 
ating, and  efface  each  other  like  those  of  the 
sky. 

\2tl1.  —  At  seven  o'clock  this  morning  I  em- 
braced her  and  left  her  weeping  in  her  bed. 
How  much  affection  there  was  in  that  adieu, 
that  pressure  of  the  hand,  that  Come  back,  that 
extinction  of  the  voice  that  tears  bring  on ! 
Poor  dear  Louise  I  I  had  the  courage  to  leave 
her  and  not  to  weep  at  all.  I  don't  in  any  way 
understand  myself;  this  self,  that  I  look  upon 
as  too  hard,  does  not  give  way  on  these  occa- 
sions. But,  nevermind;  I  can  love  as  well  as 
others,  and  what  comes  from  the  heart  is  as  much 
worth  as  what  flows  from  the  eyelids.  But  this 
tender  Louise  both  loves  and  weeps.  The  fact 
is,  she  did  regret  me  very  much,  because  she 
needs  a  friend,  and  used  to  tell  me  of  her  griefs, 
her  future,  her  plans,  perhaps  her  illusions. 
Women  always  have  some. 

[No  date]  —  Visitors,  sporting  sounds  at  the 
Cayla,  and  I,  working  with  Euphrasie  in  the 
embrasure  of  one  of  the  hall-windows.  I  am 
very  fond  of  thus  sitting  apart,  of  hearing  talk 
going  on  at  a  little  distance,  and  of  saying  a  word 
or  two  from  time  to  time  that  connects  one  with 
it.  I  am  so  much  taken  up  with  my  little  travel- 
ling "  trousseau,"  that  there  is  no  possibility  of 


28o  Jour  mil  of 

writing  or  reading.     But  then,  again,  I  am  corn- 
in-  to  Paris  in  a  fortnight. 

i')lh. — There  has  arrived  at  Cayla  to-day  a  very 
interesting  young  creature,  full  of  charms,  mem- 
ories, and  misfortunes,  — the  youngest  daughter 
of  our  Isle  of  France  cousin.      I    cannot    look 
at  her  without  deep  emotion,  she  awakens  in  me 
so  much  affection  and  regret.     I   think  of  her 
poor  father,  who  was  so  lovable,  so  superior,  so 
fond    of  me,    his   daughter   says.       Poor,    dear 
little  thing,  how  taking  she  is  with  her  vivacity 
and  cleverness,  her  graces  of  fourteen,  and  some- 
thing foreign  in  her  face  and  accent  which  adds 
a  charm   to   her  charms!      Her   little    brother, 
too,  is  very  nice,  and  quite  happy  at  his  colk 
He  is  only  nine    years   old,  and   already    feels 
the  value  of  education.      Both  are  ignorant  as 
Creoles.     "  Yonder,"  they  say,  "  we  did  noth- 
ing but  play,  but  in  France  we  must  learn  many 
things ;  otherwise  we  should  be  laughed  at.'1  My 
cousin    during   his   life    used   to   send    them    to 
school;   since  his  death  his  wife  has  taken  them 
away,  no  doubt  from  want  of  funds.      But  now 
they   find   all   they   want    in    France,  with  their 
Lagardelle  relations  and  their  father's  brothers. 
Thus  Providence  comes  to  the  aid  of  us  all. 

Oh,  I  too  am  a  proof  of  this  ;    I,  who  shall  be 
able  to  take  this  journey,  this  delightful  journey 


Eugenie  de  Gueriii.  281 


■o 


to  Paris.  I  have  told  thee  how  it  has  been 
managed.  Should  we  have  expected  last  year  to 
come  to  this  ?  God  be  praised  and  blessed  1 
Papa  has  just  been  to  Andillac,  to  get  my  passport 
visid  by  the  Mayor ;  a  sign  that  we  are  going  to 
meet.  Writing  to  Marie  of  Gaillac,  Marie  of 
the  Coques,  and  here,  a  little  chatting  and  walk- 
ing with  Felicite,  has  made  up  my  day.  Adieu  I 
there  have  been  less  happy  ones  in  our  lives. 
This  time  last  year  we  had  thee  so  ill ! 

24th.  —  No  writing,  no  retiring  hither  for 
many  days  past  ;  company,  company,  the  whole 
county  to  receive  I  We  were  twelve  at  table 
to-day,  to-morrow  we  shall  be  fifteen  ;  autumnal 
visitors,  ladies  and  sportsmen,  and  a  sprinkling 
of  cures  among  them,  as  if  to  bless  the  crowd,  — 
in  short,  the  castle-life  of  the  good  old  times. 
It  would  be  pleasant  enough  without  the  fuss  of 
housekeeping  that  it  entails.  Ah  I  and  then  I 
have  had,  too,  the  expected  visit  of  the  Rayssac 
Paladin,  who  came  as  ambassador  extraordinary 
to  bring  me  a  letter  and  happy  tidings,  a  begin- 
ning of  hope,  the  consent  of  some  one  of  great 
influence  in  this  affair.  This  has  made  me  very 
glad,  for  my  friend's  sake  and  for  his.  I  do  not 
know  which  interests  me  most ;  both  amiable, 
high-principled,  good,  and  noble-hearted,  and 
both  united  in  their  confidence    in    me.      Oh, 


282  Join  mil  of 

if  it  were  not  so  late,  how  many  things  I  would 
tell  thee  concerning  the  two  days  of  this  mysteri- 
ous visit,  —  of  walks,  of  words  sown  in  the 
woods  beneath  the  vine-leaves  ! 

28//1.  —  Nothing,  nothing  since  that  day,  not 
a  word  of  writing,  nor  any  means  of  saying 
what  has  been  done,  seen,  and  said  at  the  Cavla 
and  in  me.  How  many  persons  and  things, 
visits,  laughs,  games,  adieus,  prosperous  journeys 
wished  to  me,  who  am  about  to  set  out  1  One 
day  we  were  twelve  at  table,  the  next  fifteen  ; 
guests  dropped  in  from  here  and  there.  One 
would  have  said  that  people  in  all  directions 
had  pre-arranged  a  descent  in  large  flights  upon 
Cayla.  A  great  party  in  the  great  hall ;  it  was 
all  in  keeping,  and  wild  merriment  resulted  from 
so  much  youth.  A  good  number  of  guests 
went  away  this  evening,  taking  with  them  the 
young  Creole,  the  one  I  was  most  sorry  to  see- 
go  away.  I  love  her,  and  know  not  when  I 
shall  see  her  again.  The  mountain  messenger 
left  us  early  in  the  morning,  promising  me.  as 
a  means  of  communication,  a  letter  from  his 
sister,  in  which  he  was  to  put  a  sign  if  he  v. 
hopeful  of  happiness  ;  if  not,  nothing.  I  am 
afraid  of  that  nothing. 

Evening.  —  I    have  come  in   from  the  Caba- 
nas ;   Erembert   from  Gaillac,    bringing  me  the 


Eugenie  de  Guerin,  283 

expected  letter.  No  sign!  Poor  young  man, 
poor  friend  !  They  will  be  very  unhappy. 
Caroline  and  you  have  written  to  us  too.  This 
is  enough  to  occupy  heart  and  pen  ;  but  I  have 
not  a  moment  to  myself.  There  is  a  sweet  joy 
for  me  conveyed  from  thee  in  thy  letter  to  Papa. 
Oh,  God  always  ends  by  granting  our  requests  ! 
Dear  little  room  1  I  must  leave  thee  for  this 
evening,  and  soon  for  a  long  time. 

29//1.  —  Farewell,  my  little  room  ;  farewell, 
my  Cayla  ;  farewell,  my  book,  although,  in- 
deed. I  take  it  with  me,  but  it  will  travel  in 
my  trunk. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  mass  that  the 
kind  pastor  has  said  for  my  prosperous  journey. 
I  have  received  all  the  good-byes  and  hand- 
shaking of  Andillac.1 

1  This  seventh  book  ends  the  29th  of  September,  1S38, 
when  Mademoiselle  E.  de  Guerin  was  leaving  the  Cayla 
to  attend  her  brother  Maurice's  wedding.  The  eighth, 
which  we  have  already  printed  (' Reliquiae,' Caen,  1855), 
was  begun  at  Nevers,  the  10th  of  April,  1839.  We  shall 
see  further  on  that  in  this  interval  Mademoiselle  E.  de 
Guerin,  to  please  Maurice,  had  also  kept  a  journal  of  the 
five  months  they  spent  together  in  Paris ;  but  this  book, 
as  well  as  the  first  of  the  series,  has  eluded  our  most  care- 
ful search. 

END    OF   VOL.    I. 


DATE  DUE 

OAVLORD 

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